


Pancake Quest

by Silverhart (Avalbane)



Category: Eldemore
Genre: Breaking canon, Fluff, Gen, Pancakes, Pirate Treasure, Sterling messes everything up, adventure comedy, birdmomma, fluffy Pancakes, obligatory campfire scene, pancake ship, piratedad, pretty pink ponies, stuffypants, the good ship pancake, the pancakes were a lie, the treasure was pancakes, your daily recommended does of pancakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2019-09-26 00:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 73,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17131364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avalbane/pseuds/Silverhart
Summary: On a mission for the Watch Crows, Sorren, Muzu, Willy and Fiore find themselves unexpectedly stranded on a tropical island with nothing but a crateful of pancake mix. For Willy, this seems to be the makings of a dream come true. That is, until Sorren points out their lack of several important ingredients for pancake making. Now it's up to Willy to find and collect the necessary ingredients. But the island itself seems set against him, pitting our protagonists against deadly wildlife, undead monsters, and intoxicating foliage. If that weren't the least of their problems, they find themselves in a tight spot with a crew of navy sailors, who have got it into their heads that some priceless treasure or other is to be found on the island, and will let nothing come in their way of it. It's up to Willy and Sorren, along with Fiore and Muzu to save the day, and along the way, rediscover what the true treasure is (obviously pancakes).





	1. In Which Two Stowaways Decline an Invitation to Tea

“You know Sorren, when ye asked me out, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” As Willy said this, a rotting corpse garbed in pirate attire stumbled forward. Willy was forced to back up against his dark haired companion. The two of them found themselves surrounded on all sides by a harrowing phantasm; a hundred-odd undead sailors in various states of decay circled, like vampire chillabats screaming for blood. Except they weren’t actually screaming. Most of their vocal chords had rotted away, so they just kind of opened and closed their gaping mouths like landed cuttlefish.

“I may have somewhat… oversold the cruise aspect,” the halfborn admitted. He readjusted his grip on the sword he held, and cast his gaze over the swarm. Sorren’s eyes - one dark and red, the other a soft blue, were usually hard to read, even for Willy. Right now they seemed to sparkle with a sense of mischief. “But you must admit - as far as working vacations go it’s been a rather relaxing trip up until now.”

That might have been debatable, though, “I suppose it does beat our last vacation. Though I’m not sure one can really call a Watch Crow raid a ‘vacation’.”

“That’s because it wasn’t one.”

Willy felt Sorren maneuvering to keep themselves back to back. The redhead continued to eye up the legion of corpses. One particularly big undead pirate opened his -her? their? - mouth to yell; only to have their jaw pop loose. It hit the deck with a wet smack; Willy recoiled, while the serval at his feet jumped back with a startled hiss. “Yeah… well, I don’t fancy bein’ so relaxed as these blokes.”

Sorren let out a chuckle despite himself, the sound as harsh and warmblooded as a crow’s voice in a graveyard. They were stood on the top deck of a large brig, staring down the looming mass of empty-eyed cadavers. The dying light of twilight lent a blood-red tint to everything. Long shadows striped the deck in blackness as impenetrable as the Void. Thy swam before Willy’s eyes, and he had to blink to get them to behave as proper shadows ought. He hadn’t seen sunlight in two days and his eyes seemed to have plum forgotten how it worked.

They had been stowed away in the forward hold of the ship, waiting, Sorren said, for the perfect time to strike. As it turned out that time wasn’t to come. They’d been discovered and dragged up onto the deck by this walking cemetery. The dead-eyed corpses stared at them, with expressions that seemed to hold disgust, and Willy couldn’t blame them.

After being cramped inside a crate for days, Willy’s beard was scurfier than usual, his coat rumpled and dirty - he looked like a regular Celtland barbarian. Sorren’s shirt was in desperate in need of ironing, and the usually glamorous feline Fiore looked well on her way to becoming an alley serval. Muzu - well, Muzu always looked good, not least because crows could pull off the disheveled look better than most. Sadly, the majority of the undead apparitions were without noses, or else Willy felt certain the smell alone would have driven them back.

Sorren had to admit he was feeling a bit relieved at their discovery. His stiff muscles, and frayed nerves longed for the release a good fight would bring. He eyed the crowd looking for a worthy opponent, but none were forthcoming. The cadavers hung back, as if waiting for a signal. Their hesitation made him even more restive. On his shoulder, Muzu ruffled his feathers, sharing his bonded’s impatience. It felt good to be out of that stuffy hold, even if the air did smell like the far side of a vulture rune’s dinner.

Bony digits clasped hilts of rusted cutlasses and boarding axes, stiffened ligaments raised as if to strike. A flourish of Sorren’s sword repelled their sluggish movements. Such shoddy workmanship. Sure, there was that undeniable knack for reanimating large quantities of the dead, but he had seen better quality in parlor trick seances. The sheer number of them pressing in on them was impressive, and somewhat alarming…

This should have been an easy job to finish. Find the necromancer; quietly dispose of him, and preferably any of his dirty work he’d left lying around. Though he doubted when he’d been given the mission, that anyone in Talon quite knew the extent of the mess this necromancer had reanimated, and which was now clogging every space of deck around them; a groaning, shambling, rotting, ill-coordinated mess.

“Well, well, well,” a silky voice came lilting over the chattering bones of the undead crew. “If it isn’t a pair of crows come a- _sss_ cavenging off the eagle.” Willy and Sorren as one glanced to see the owner of the voice atop the quarterdeck. Emerging from the voluminous, smoky folds of a liger-tail trimmed robe, stood a tall, lanky figure. His form was all angles, bedecked in jewels and bones, and topped by a richly plumed hat that instantly won Willy’s admiration. He was as rail thin as one of the many corpses, his face as pale as a maggot; his voice the only evidence of his carrying a blood beat. Bony fingers cradled a delicate bone tea cup, so thin one doubted they could lift it. In contrast to the spindle-bones, stood a hulking reanimated liger beside him, dark as a thunderhead. The last red streaks of sunlight touched the hem their forms, leaving both of them in stark shadow. The necromancer squinted down at the two of them, raising a monocle to his left eye. He sneered at Willy, taking in the flaming red hair and beard, the vibrant pink coat and hat, complete with it’s own double plume. “Well, one crow, and what would appear to be a flamingo."

“Now that’s just uncalled fer!” Willy cried out, puffing up in anger. “Sorren can’t help being spidery-shanked.” The spidery-shanked one looked mortified.

The man grinned, showing off straight teeth. He lifted his tea cup to his lips and took a sip, as around them the skeletal crew shuffled expectantly. Sorren kept darting his eyes to the crowd, and back to the man talking. “ _Sss_ o, I find myself with two _sss_ towaways, I do. The law of the _ssss_ ea _ssss_ tates clearly what is to be done with _sss_ pies and _sss_ towaways.”

Like any sailor who knew his salt, Willy and Sorren were well aware of the rather imaginative consequences employed for stowaways. Willy winced as the man continued to hiss his ‘s’s. “Not only that! You’ve interrupted my tea time, you _sss_ condrouloussss _sss_ cabs! And what _sss_ ort of host would I be, mixing busine _ssss_ with tea?”

“Not a very gracious one,” Sorren agreed. The horde of undead seemed to slump back a little.

“Aye, ye might get blood all over those little doilies,” Willy added. “We’re not _animals_ , here. Well, except for Fiore.” The serval wrinkled her nose at him.

“I’m _sss_ ure we can di _sss_ pense with the more gruesome formalities, at least until after tea. Would you like _sss_ ome?”

Willy was taken off guard by the change in tone. Sorren threw his own guard up.

“What sort of tea you got?”

“Will!”

“What?! I was promised refreshments on this trip!” Willy bristled his mustache at Sorren. He hadn’t had a proper drink since walking onto the pier two days ago, while still under the distinct impression that he and Sorren were setting off on a fun-filled couple’s cruise.

Sorren scowled. “We are not having tea with the man we are here to assassinate.”

“What if he has Seraphim Tea?”

Sorren glared, and put all the _No_ , he could muster behind it. The necromancer continued to sip from the cup, drinking in the unfolding drama as he drank in his tea. He lifted his head to announce. “I do have _sss_ ome _Sss_ eraphim tea, in fact. Brew up a batch of it, _sss_ hall I?”

“ _Sorren.”_

“ _Will!_ Don’t play dunderpate. He’s looking to poison us and reanimate our bodies. His chuffing tea cup is made out of _bone._ He’s wearing teeth for earrings. The man _hisses_.” Sorren growled. “What do you want to bet there’s more spittle than tea in that cup?”

Willy’s face changed at this last. Of all the things to put him off, the idea that he might be drinking out of a tea cup full of saliva was more than he could bear.

“ _Sss_ calded _sss_ crapers!” The ashen-faced necromancer sputtered, adding even more spit to his cup, and making the collection of bones sewn into his waistcoat rattle. “ _Sss_ coff at my hospitality, you will? Insult my _sss-sss_ peech impediment?” He puffed himself up in affront. He was becoming more and more incomprehensible as he got angrier. “If you have no wish to _sss_ tay, then I bid you the joys of the _sss_ ea. Crew! E _sss_ cort our homely guest _sss_ off the _sss_ hip, you will. What un _ssss_ crupulous _sss_ waggerers turn down _tea?!_ Perhap _sss_ their mind _sss_ will be changed after a light drowning.” He clapped his hands at that. “Drowning victims are _sss_ uch fun to bring back. No me _sss,_ no fu _sssss._ You just fisssh them out, fre _sss_ h as dai _sss_ ies. You’ll be _sss_ o much more agreeable. _”_ He twittered in delight.

The reanimated sailors clacked their jaws in unanimous agreement, pressing in on the stowaways. Fiore hissed, swiping a paw out at the advancing corpses. Sorren made some quick calculations in his head. He lifted his sword and fended off a few jabs. Willy spoke up sharply. “Wait… ye’re not even gonna ask us why we stowed away in the first place? Aren’t we owed the right to at least a hearing-out?”

The necromancer looked a bit miffed as Willy snatched the last word away from him. He sighed theatrically. “I’m gue _sss_ ing it wasn’t to join me for tea.”

“Nope!” Willy shouted. “We were sent here - well, Sorren was sent here; I, poor, lowly glass smith that I am, was duped into coming.” Sorren struggled not to roll his eyes. Willy crossed his arms. “ _Someone_ said there’d be an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet.”

“No, you _assumed_ there would be one,” Sorren told him pointedly. Willy had been gnawing at this bone for two days; did he really have to bring it up _now_? They were on a job! “I said: ‘after we’re all finished with this job we could grab breakfast at Buff’s Bay.’”

“ _Sss_ eems deliberately mi _sss_ leading.”

Willy gave an empathetic nod.

The halfborn felt his cheeks growing hot. “Pardon, but I’m not the one on trial. And you’re hardly the one to pass judgment.” He jabbed a finger at the necromancer. “Am I to believe all these -” Sorren flung an arm to take in the reanimated corpses “-were in on your schemes before they died?” The necromancer just shrugged.

Willy puffed himself up. “Well, in any case, we’re here to stop ye and yer heinous… heinous… what would call his operation, Sorren?”

“Ghost ship?” the halfborn suggested

“Really more of a ‘zombie-ship’, than a ‘ghost ship’ there.” Sorren couldn’t care less about semantics at that moment, as he rushed to block a blow from an overzealous corpse’s sword.

Willy continued his tirade, while Sorren fended off several more blades. “Yer heinous zombie-horde-ship by whatever means necessary, tea or no tea. You sure about the tea thing, Sorren?”

“ _Yes._ ” Sorren gritted his teeth, bent under the strain of holding off a huge sword bearing down on the two of them. Willy didn’t seem to notice.

The necromancer appeared to be growing more and more bored. “Well, that’s nice,” he mused. He tossed the empty tea cup over his shoulder where it shattered on the deck. “Good luck with that whole ‘trying to stop me’ thing.” He turned away from them, and his liger followed.

The reanimated crew clacked their teeth taking his leave as a signal. As one they swung empty gazes back to the two living bodies in their midst. It was downright eerie how they had synchronized their head turns.

Sorren whipped his blade around and up, knocking aside their weapons, as they threw themselves forward. He grit his teeth. “Will - in future I would ask you not to air our dirty laundry out in public.”

Willy parried a thrust and danced around Sorren’s back. “Well, where else am I s’posed to air ‘em Sorren? They don’t have a laundry room on board!”

“Are you really being snippy with me right now?” Sorren knocked a skull loose with a heavy blow. It went bouncing off into the crowd.

Willy grunted as he repelled a forceful attack. “I’m just sayin’: If’n ye didn’t want to have dirty laundry, ye maybe shouldn’t have been the one to dirty it. There. I said it.”

Sorren flushed with annoyance. “It wouldn’t have gotten _dirty_ , if you hadn’t alerted the entire crew to our presence.”

“Oh, it was dirty long before that, and ye know it.” Sorren was struggling to keep track of this metaphor. No matter. He had to focus. Willy would have to deal with his own laundry hang-ups. With a grunt launched himself into the fighting with renewed vigor.

Startled, Muzu let out a sudden caw, before burrowing down the front of Sorren’s shirt. “Muzu!” Before Sorren could wrangle the crow out of his clothes, a large corpse - bloated and blackened beyond recognition, swung a boarding spike at the dark haired swordsman. Sorren, forgetting the bird for a moment, ducked and sliced open the undead’s belly. A nauseous gas burst over the group of them, causing Willy to retch. Fiore’s fur stood on end. As the big corpse fell, two more came swarming up in his place. The blackened corpse struggled to back to it’s feet, preparing to attack yet again once Sorren had cut down the next wave.

Shoddily animated they may be, but if they stayed here they’d be overwhelmed all too quickly. “Split up!” Sorren lashed out, rolling away from Willy with a hope to split the mob’s attention.

Springing to his feet, Sorren parried an oncoming blade, and looked up into the face of the swordsman. This one still had one eye in a socket that rolled around wildly. Whoever they had been in the past, they were a fantastic fencer. They slashed and feinted with the living figure. For a few heart-pounding moments, Sorren struggled to hold off the attacks and find an advantage - until the corpse next to them lost an arm, and the one-eyed revenant tripped over it. Sorren slashed the back of the corpse’s legs, severing the wiry tendons, and ensuring it’s inability to stand.

Sorren whirled to meet the next attacker, and the next. Without Willy at his back, he had to keep on his toes, dodging and evading attacks from behind as well as from the front. If the undead weren’t tripping over themselves constantly, Sorren felt sure he would’ve gone down in a pile of them by now. They weren’t like normal warriors; a single deep cut didn’t bring them down - it only made them lose balance for a moment, before they came bouncing back. Neither did they guard themselves like a living body would, and his blade easily sliced through tendons and muscle, rendering corpses to smaller and smaller sizes.

He felt, more than saw the huge hulking shape rise at his back. The half-born whirled with uncanny speed, lifting his sword just in time to block the downward blow of a huge tibia the corpse was using as a club. The jolt of the hit sent pain lancing up into the living man’s jaw; the blade sank deep into bone.

A flash of pink caught Sorren’s eye, as he struggled to wrench his cutlass free. Willy and Fiore were holding their own, dodging around the corpses, so they missed their swings and collided into one another. Willy leapt onto the hatchway, pursued by a shambling corpse. As soon as the undead reached the hatchway, his peg leg was swallowed into the grating. There was a loud crack as its pelvis slammed into the hatchway cover, firmly stuck. Willy winced in sympathy.

Sorren’s own combatant was trying to wrench the bone free of his sword. It nearly tore Sorren’s own arm off in the process, but the bone remained firmly stuck. Sorren tried to shake it off, but was as if rigor motis had clamped down a grip on the bone. An idea struck him. Bracing his feet, the halfborn spun around, dragging the undead swordsman around in a wide sweep. As the skeletal specter yanked again, Sorren let go his sword, and the corpse went tumbling backwards to crash into his trapped comrade. Bones scattered across the deck like thrown dice.

“Thanks fer that!” Willy cried out. He tossed his own sword to Sorren, who caught it with practiced grace, and slid straight back into the fight. Willy reached for a discarded sword, but came up holding a skull instead. There was no time to try for another as an undead sailor lunged at him. Willy cracked the skull against the attacker’s temple, sending the corpse’s head spinning on its vertebrae. He pulled his arm back for another blow, and to his horror found his makeshift weapon had fixed its teeth around his wrist and was gnawing away.

“ _Ah!”_ No, no, no! He did not sign up for _this_. Horrible life choices leading up to this moment flashed before Willy’s eyes - why had he chosen to wear the purple socks instead of his lucky green ones? Sure, they didn’t match his outfit, but he’d never have gotten into this mess with them, surely. Should’ve never taken Sorren to dinner that night in that seedy pub, should’ve never had that fifth tankard. Should’ve never agreed that a working cruise would be just the thing they needed… He jumped back, waving his arm wildly. “Getitoff! Getitoff! _Getitoff_!” _Smack!_ He stuck another corpse in the nose as he flailed.

“I’m going after the necromancer!” Sorren yelled above the clash of bone and steel. “Keep them occupied Will!”

Willy ran screaming across the deck, knocking undead left and right as he tried to escape his new bony friend. _“Ahhhhhh!”_

“Just like that, yes!” Sorren readjusted his grip on the sword, and charged a path to the quarterdeck Willy had just cleared. He slashed through one corpse, then the next, slicing papery skin and pus-bloated organs. He was a blaze of blue-black in the whirling wash of sluggish brown.

Taking the companionway, Sorren was met with the huge liger. The big felid lay crouching in wait for him. Ancient instincts recognized the hunting gaze of a ruthless predator about to kill, and stopped him dead. Fear was something Sorren had learned to quell, but primordial terror was an altogether different beast. For too long an instant he felt himself unable to move. Sharp prickles at his back heralded a losing battle.

The liger leapt, claws extended. Sorren was forced to jump back, stumbling back down the companionway. The beast paused at the head of the steps, watching as Sorren fell back and was swallowed up by the horde of undead. They grabbed him, pulled him under. Skinless fingers twined in his hair, lipless mouths leered at him. Something fluttered in his chest - his heart? No, it was Muzu. Apparently Sorren’s shirt had become an ill hiding spot. The halfborn slashed and kicked in desperation as bony fingers snatched at him. Though he slashed them to pieces, still they grasped, squeezing him, scratching him. He beat at them like the crow beating against his chest, struggling not to be smothered by their stench.

With a cry of alarm Muzu finally broke out of the neck of his shirt. The crow, ice blue eyes flaming, flew straight into the face of an undead axwoman. The corpse fell backwards onto the boat hook of the cadaver behind her. From there it was like someone had knocked over a line of dominoes. One after the other the rotting figures were toppled over, flailing their limbs like upended cockroaches. Sorren gained his feet and leapt clear of the mob, his heart pounding in his ears.

There was no chance of reaching the necromancer with that big cat and the hordes of undead swarming around him. But there was more than one way to skin a serval. Sorren reached beneath his cloak and fingered the crossbow there. All he needed was a place to get a clear shot. He needed a high vantage point.

Sorren spun in an arc, knocking back combatants. He surged towards the ratlines; those lines arrayed along the ship’s sides like great big webs the topmen climbed as easily as if they were monkeys. As his hand fell upon the rope, something clasped his ankle and yanked. Sorren kicked it away and scuttled up the ropes faster than a sleipnir with a burr in it’s tail.

The mass of roving corpses seemed for a moment to swell as one horrible conglomerate of flesh. The mass of them quivered, before, like the foam of a wave as it broke, it poured up the lines after him.

Sorren was grateful for all those topside races Willy had challenged him to in their youth. Sorren hadn’t braved the shrouds in years, but muscle memory saw him through the treacherous canopy of line and sail that swayed above the ship’s deck.

He paused on a spar to catch his breath. The slant of a grey sail offered him a small bit of coverage; not that it mattered overmuch since most of the crew were lacking in functioning eyeballs. Sorren took advantage of the slight respite to draw out his crossbow from beneath his cloak. Before he could load it, a huge cutlass sliced through the air above him. Sorren had to roll off the spar to save his neck from being relieved of the rest of him. Damn - they were persistent muckers. For a moment he was tumbling, free falling through the air. He lashed out for the main sheet. The rough hemp bit into his palm as he jerked his fall to a sudden halt. Sorren swung around to brace his feet against the mainmast.

There was no possible way Sorren could load an arrow from this position. The sun had gone, there was hardly any light to see by. He cast about, locating a copper sided lantern swinging from a spar. There! That should grant him enough light to load his crossbow, and locate the necromancer.

The halfborn leapt towards a line just as a new attacker dropped towards him. He swung towards the next spar, barely missing the body as it hurtled down to the deck with as much nonchalance as if it had stepped off a stair. Well, when you had no brain left, Sorren guessed throwing yourself off the rigging was as good a plan as any to a corpse. More and more of the animated cadavers surged up the rigging; loose jaws swinging in ghastly smiles made chills run up and down him spine.

Sorren reached up for the lantern, and a sudden sharp pain lanced across his hand. He drew back with a curse as a fluttering skeletal glasswork buzzed in his face. _Of course._ Most ships nowadays carried lanterns attended by tiny glasswork dragons if they could afford it. Most of those glassworks however, had flesh covering them. _I’m beginning to sense a theme with this ship’s captain._ It was no bigger than his hand, but glassworks were notoriously fierce when defending their territory. The little imp dove at Sorren with a sliver of sharpened steel the tiny creature had likely spent hours honing. Sorren ducked and weaved, the glasswork buzzing about so fast he couldn’t make out more than a blur

 _Muzu, I could use your help._ Sorren sent out the word along the link he shared with the crow. He found him circling the ship, surveying the action from above. The halfborn received a caw of acknowledgment, and looked up to see a black shape swooping through the sky, an ink blot on black velvet. Crows were not known for their night vision, but through the weak leftovers of sunset Muzu navigated through the tangle of sheets and sail, relying on Sorren’s eyes as well as his own.

“Ahh!” Sorren’s connection to the bird was suddenly severed as the wooden yard he stood on bounced. Sorren dropped into a crouch, steadying himself on the swaying beam. His eyes darted to the far end of the spar, where a corpse was making it’s way towards him with determined progress.

The hulking cadaver loomed up before him, the careful stance betraying their skill in life as that of a topman. The mouth was open, black and tongueless. It reached out with a withered hand, a rapier held in it’s grip. Sorren caught the blow on his crossbow and redirected it away from his body. He twisted, slamming his elbow into the figure’s nose, or at least what was left of it’s nose.

Meanwhile the tiny glasswork dragon hefted it’s bloodied sword, and let out a high pitched screech. It dove at Sorren as the halfborn grappled with this new opponent. The living man cursed and ducked, trying to dodge the attacks on his eyes, and fend off the rusted rapier at the same time.

Muzu came swooping in to Sorren’s aid like a night fiend. The black crow collided with the tiny glasswork in midair. The glasswork was fast. Zipping out of the deadly beak, it spun to face this new attacker. Muzu flipped over, smacking a wing into the tiny creature and sending it careening through the air. He dove after it. With a clack of beak and a crunch of little bones, the fight was over.

Sorren, finally able to focus without that overgrown gnat buzzing in his ear, dropped down to kick his opponent’s legs out from under them. The body went down on the yardarm. There was a cracking squelch as the spine hit solid wood. In a living body, that would’ve ended it, but Sorren had no doubts this phantom would soon be back on it’s feet. Acting fast, he leapt up, fumbling to get his bow in order. He threw Muzu a quick glance. The crow was sat contentedly, glasswork limbs splayed out of his beak like a crushed beetle. It was still twitching. A bit of cold chill skittered up the halfborn’s spine. _Need to focus, old boy._

His opponent was already gaining it’s feet. Sorren barely had time to utter a curse before the stinking body slammed into him. The breath was knocked clear out of him as he cracked his skull on the lantern. The light spun wildly, flashing shadows across the ghoulish scene before him. He caught only glimpses of movement. An arm raising to strike. The glint of a blade. The flap of a crow’s wing. His eyes struggled to find a point of focus.

He cast about, flailing for a weapon. Numbly he found his hand closing on something. Cold. Hard. Metal. Sorren grabbed it. He swung with all his might, crying out as it hit bone.

On deck, Willy finally dispelled with his unwelcome accessory, by slamming it into the brass railing until all it’s rotting teeth fell out. He reached out and took up a much less animate belaying pin. Sweeping it in a large arc around him, he cleared the immediate deck of walking corpses. A skeleton, completely stripped of flesh and brown from the sun, lunged at him. It swung a huge ax at Willy’s neck, driving the glass smith toward the foredeck. Willy slipped in under the poor defenses and cracked the heavy wooden pin on the wrist of his adversary. Tiny bones shattered with a sharp snap. The ax dropped from the skeleton’s hand, but it otherwise seemed to hardly mind. The specter reeled back and struck Willy with the limp hand, sending him careening backwards into a barrel.

Willy glanced overhead to see Sorren wasn’t faring much better. “Sorren!” He watched as his partner was slammed into the mast, pinned there by an undead swordsmen. More corpses were finding their feet on the spar and rushing forward, their mouths open in silent blood cries.

Sharp and sudden a light flared into life above Willy. It was so brilliant it was nearly blinding. Willy dove out of the way. Something slammed into the deck next to him. It took Willy a full moment to realize what it was, and when he did, he recoiled. The fire leapt higher to engulf the entire body with a hunger so ravenous it was like the sun. He and Fiore ducked for cover behind the barrel. The fire burned out hot and fast, leaving nothing behind but a lingering phantom light on the backs of his eyelids. A thick oily smell slithered over the deck, curled in his belly, and looked to eject the contents there. Only years of fortitude allowed Willy to keep from casting up accounts all over the deck.

The smell tickled Willy’s memory - it was the very same that wafted from the soap makers on the downwind side of their home port, Silverport. The smell of rancid fat burning. The scent coated his throat and the inside of his nose - it felt as if someone had poured a load of old grease down his gullet. For a long moment he couldn’t see straight, as realization dawned. Sorren had set the reanimated cadaver alight with oil from the lantern.

It took all of his will to open his mouth and shout, getting a lungful of the foul stuff in the process. “Sorren! This ship is a regular candle factory!”

“What?” _Candles?_ What in the name of the seven seas was Willy on about? He felt as if he were coming out of a dream. Sorren shook his head clear and saw the big corpse was nowhere to be found. Several others stared at him from across the spar in slack-jawed shock - or maybe they simply lacked the muscle tension to close their jaws any longer. In a moment he understood why, as the scent washed over him, and he nearly lost his lunch. Sorren had experienced a lot of odors in his time, but even for him he had to wrestle his stomach into control. A Watch Crow did not toss his lots at the first sign of trouble. But he recognized the smell, perhaps even more acutely then Willy did. _A candle factory…_

It took him a long moment to realize what he was holding. The lantern, it’s door swinging open, was still lit, despite the rather large dent it now sported. He looked around for his crossbow, but he’d dropped the weapon in the scuffle. Instead he saw more of the corpses crawling their way over to him across the rigging in all directions. Ob’s bobs! - they were worse than a cuttlefish infestation, and smelled twice as bad. “Muzu!”

With a caw, the crow swooped into action. No words need pass between them - Muzu knew what Sorren was looking for. He dove down. Sorren took a risk and closed his eyes, letting Muzu take hold of his sight for just a moment. He found his vision swooping low through the dark, twisted canopy of shroud and line. There! Below him! He saw the curve of light around the form of a bow. It had landed on the yard below, against one of the braces.

He opened his eyes, and the world snapped back into focus. The cadavers loomed closer, reaching out with brittle fingers, and sharpened boat hooks. He hefted his sword, but it would be impossible to juggle the blade with the lantern.

“Hold this for me,” he told the nearest body, and ran his blade through an open hole in the thing’s ribcage. It gurgled in mild annoyance. He dove off the spar as the ghastly figure swung wildly at him, lost it’s balance and toppled over onto the deck below.

Sorren fared better. With Muzu’s voice as a guide, he angled his fall toward the sound of his bonded’s caw. Muzu dove out of the way, and Sorren’s hand reached out where he had been, and found rope. He grabbed it and swung himself round, catching himself against the sail before he wrenched his shoulder out.

He fumbled against the heavy canvas. From there Sorren launched himself down again, chasing after the crow’s call. He hit the yard and rolled into a crouch, nearly rolling straight off the narrow spar. He snatched up the crossbow, in one hand, and in the same movement drew out a bolt from his pouch.

The undead were mulling around above, trying to figure out where their quarry had gone. Soon enough they’d set upon him again. Already some of those scrambling up the shrouds had changed course. Sorren took advantage of his brief respite to load the bolt and douse it in flaming oil from the lantern. Sorren hissed as oil droplets hit his hand. Only years of training allowed him to push away the searing pain and focus on the task at hand.

He lifted the bow to aim. The flame on the end of the bolt blinded his night vision. He could hardly see. But he didn’t need to. Muzu became his eyes. Where ever he heard the sharp caw Sorren released a bolt. Tiny flames arced through the night, raining down on the horde below.

Within seconds, the deck erupted into an inferno.

The heat was so intense and sudden, Sorren staggered. It felt like he’d walked into an oven. Willy hadn’t been kidding when he’d called the place a candle factory. The dry skin and rotting fat were as good as tinder and pitch. From his vantage point Sorren looked over the quarterdeck. He could swear he saw the exact moment on the necromancer’s face when this realization came over him. He couldn’t hear what the man screamed, but he could very well imagine it was not suitable for a tea party. “Will!” He yelled down into the firestorm, the stench almost knocking the breath out of him.

“ _Muzu!_ ” a hoarse voice cawed out. The halfborn followed Muzu’s screech, and spied Willy running across the deck with Fiore, dodging the undead. The cadavers kept spinning in place, seemingly confused by the sudden light as their heads were engulfed in flame. Willy slipped through them like a moth through a series of candelabras. With a caw of delight that Sorren would’ve liked to voice himself, Muzu dove to meet Willy and Fiore. Sorren followed, surging off the spar to leap to the next. He caught himself in the lines, and scrambled up them to escape the creeping heat, the blasting wind; searching for a place to descend.

The halfborn leapt for the shrouds and clung on with all his might. The tar used to treat the hemp was melting from the heat. He could feel the line growing slick beneath his grip. His fingers were slipping. Something heavy slammed into the shrouds, knocking him loose He dropped a foot before Sorren caught himself one handed and looked up to see a flaming corpse leering at him through the ropes. Tiny flickers of flame curled out of it’s eye sockets, a jet of red spilled out of it’s mouth like a demonic tongue trying to taste him. Instead, it licked at the ropes. The smell of tar filled his nostrils as it melted, dripping hotly down his wrist. Sorren recognized his sword peeking out through the ribs of the corpse.

“Sorren! Jump!” The halfborn peered over his shoulder to see Willy below him. He had managed to get into a lifeboat. He and Fiore were currently fending it off from smoldering corpses with an oar. The tarp covering the lifeboat’s supplies should make for a relatively soft landing.

There was a loud _crack_ as the spars supporting the shrouds ruptured. Sorren’s stomach was left behind as he was dropped another two feet. He used the movement to swing himself forward, hooking his toes in the rope. Feet braced, Sorren wrapped his hand around the sword hilt, the heat off the corpse scorching his knuckles. “Thanks.” He wrenched the blade free of the decomposing flesh, and launched himself off the shrouds in one smooth motion.

And then he was in the air.

For a moment, Sorren felt like a bird, soaring out over the conflagration. Rope snapped and hissed through the air like angry serpents. The heat snatched at him hungrily. He twisted in the air to avoid the worst of the flames. And then he was dropping, fire and wood rushing up to meet him.

Sorren slammed into the tarp with a force that knocked the breath from him. He tumbled into the lifeboat, practically into Willy’s lap.

“Nice of you to drop in!” Willy beamed down at him, eyes twinkling in a face black with soot, before hefting his oar to knock a flaming skull off a body trying to climb into the boat. It was a marvelous sight to behold, but something kept him from fully enjoying it. A sharp, sudden pain across his palm. With a jolt he realized what it was Sorren sprang up, juggling the hot sword between his two hands. “Ow-ow-ow-ow. Stop laughing, Muzu! I knew it was a bad idea!” Muzu paid no mind. The crow continued rolling over the tarp, leaving crow-shaped soot-angels on the white canvas as he chortled.

The deck was fast descending into a blazing firestorm. The flames were a deeper red than even Willy’s bright hair. Fire licked up the sides of the masts, snatching hungrily at the sails. Wood screamed as steam burst from its’ cells. The whole ship shuddered like a living thing, groaning, creaking, dying as the fire latched it’s claws onto every flammable surface. That which it couldn’t grab hold of, it’s heat licked until it began to melt.

Sorren hurried to release the pulley fastening them to the ship. “Will! Let’s move.”

Willy took one more swing at the undead for good measure, before throwing his oar down and running to the other pulley. “Fiore - take over!” The sea serval looked at the slavering corpses with their various parts on fire. With a flick of her tail that clearly said: ‘screw that’ she fled under the boat’s tarp. Willy seized hold of the line and undid the knot holding her with a few swift jerks. “On the count of three. One -”

“Three!” Sorren yelled, as he let the rope run through his hands. Willy did the same. The boat swung out over the churning seas. The heat from the burning deck was inescapable, searing their faces, the smoke bringing tears to their eyes, to say nothing of the smell. Ragged, fiery arms groped at them from the gun ports as they fell past.

The tiny boat crashed into the waves, jarring the teeth in Sorren’s skull. The waters foamed around them, as though something was stirring them from below. “Some Ancient’s got its tail in knots, eh Sorren?”

Sorren was too busy setting the sail to do more than grunt at the old saying. The fire was moving up the ship’s rigging now, leaping from spar to spar. Once a highway for topmen, now the flames took full advantage of the tar soaked hemp, hopping about like a flock of rune dragons hyped up on too much sugar.

Embers rained down on them from above. A velvet paw appeared from under the tarp to occasionally bat at the glowing droplets. Willy quickly found a bailing bucket, filled it, and with Sorren’s help doused the sail. The wet cloth billowed out, heavy and taught against the wind’s blow. There could be no risking its getting set ablaze.

“Will! Look out!” Just as Sorren yelled, a flaming spar crashed into the water beside them, sending their tiny boat bucking. The ocean swallowed the piece with a belch of super hot steam. Head low, Willy grabbed up the oar, and refit it into it’s socket. Sorren acted to reset the other one, mirroring Willy, as he dipped his oar into the angry waves.

It was a struggle to escape the furious waters surrounding the ghost ship - zombie ship, or whatever Willy insisted it was. Every oar stroke seemed to bring them away mere inches, before being sucked back another foot by whatever current they were trapped in. Sorren struggled to match Willy’s pace. His limbs burned with the effort. Muzu cawed out the rhythm, which seemed rather unnecessary to Sorren, considering there were only two of them rowing.

The scorching heat on their backs eventually dissipated enough for Willy to risk a glance over his shoulder. “Cor’ - would you look at that?”

Sorren looked at the soot stained face, and followed it’s gaze back behind them. In the distance it appeared as though the sea were holding a bonfire. Sorren couldn’t make out the shape of the ship for the flames. Even this far out, the acrid stench of smoke and ash hung heavy all around them. A greasy black plume of the stuff, fat and bloated like an engorged snake, coiled into the night sky. A column of black blotted out the stars from view.

It was eerie. No sound reached them across the waters, even as the fires raged. After so much chaos and noise, it felt to Sorren as if his ears were wadded with cotton. He could imagine himself in the private study of some wealthy merchant looking through a frame into a painting of make-believe battle. Despite his singed skin telling him otherwise, the event felt far away.

“Brizo’s gardens keep you.” Sorren looked at Willy as the glass smith quoted the old seaman’s prayer for the dead. He’d doffed his hat in salute to the burning hulk. Sorren was about to add his own wish for goodwill for all those lost and enslaved by the necromancer’s magic, when the fire reached the powder magazine.

The scene exploded. The night was torn open in a red burst of violence. Sky and sea were lit bloodred and bright as the dawn. The boom of it hit them full force, a wave of sound and heat that overwhelmed the senses.

“Row! Row! _Row!_ Forget the gardens! Just _row!_ ” Willy’s voice was frantic. Sorren and he pulled on the oars for all they were worth. Pieces of flaming debris soared through the sky like comets, hissing angrily as they struck the water. Willy brushed an ember from the plume and jammed his hat back on his head, as Sorren knocked two more off the tarp.

It seemed strange when suddenly, the falling embers stopped, and just as suddenly the light went out. Like a candle being snuffed, the burning ship was swallowed by the sea, leaving only the faint starlight, and a sliver of a single oxbow moon. The wind was empty with the loss of the fire’s voice. The castaways sat for a moment in the dark and silence, allowing their eyes to adjust. If not for the lingering smell of ash, it was as if the ghost ship had never been there at all. Even that meager evidence was being quickly eroded by wind and water.

Sorren let off rowing, his back muscles already protesting against their treatment. He turned to Willy, flushed with the pride of a job well-done. Or if not well, then at least, done. The Watch Crows would’ve preferred he capture the ship itself, but the main goal was accomplished. The necromancer’s army of undead would not be harming anyone else ever again. Willy flashed a Cheshire rune grin at him - glowing white teeth in a face blackened with ashes whose origin Sorren preferred not to think about. The halfborn fished a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Well, I’d say that was enough excitement for one night,” Sorren said, scrubbing away at Willy’s features. He didn’t trust Willy to the task.

“Ye’re bleeding.” Willy’s statement didn’t register until he’d snatched Sorren’s hand away from his face. He turned it over in the faint moonlight. It was covered in blood and dirt. Sorren looked down. The sight of it was dizzying, considering he hadn’t felt a thing in their mad escape. Only now that he saw it did the pain come, sharp and throbbing. Willy shucked the oars, while Muzu came closer, huffing in soft concern.

From beneath the tarp, Willy drew out a canteen of water. Fiore slunk out as well, leaping up to drape herself over Willy’s shoulders. The burly glass smith flopped down beside Sorren. “You’ve blood on your cheek too,” he said, pulling the stopper out with his teeth. “You look like something Fiore would drag in.”

The magenta sea serval turned her nose up at this. As if _she_ would ever bring home something as ghastly looking a sight as _Sorren_. Willy was the one responsible for that. She flicked her tail in his face to remind him.

Sorren hissed as Willy poured the canteen out over his burning palms.“Usually I’m the one who comes out of these misadventures bleeding.” Willy capped the canteen, and picked up the dirty handkerchief. He scowled.

“Left pocket,” Sorren instructed, shifting so Willy could reach it easily. Willy fished free the clean kerchief, and tore it into strips, before starting to wrap the wounds. Sorren gritted his teeth in pain. “You forget your ‘kerchief, again didn’t you?”

“ _Nooo…”_ Willy scoffed, turning his nose up, as if the very idea of carrying a handkerchief were beneath him. “I didn’t forget. I just lost it.” Cough. “On purpose.”

Sorren heaved a sigh. “This is exactly why we can never go out to anyplace nice you know.”

“I thought you liked going to the pub?”

Sorren decided to refocus the conversation to the more important task at hand. “Speaking of - you didn’t happen to have chance to grab any food, did you?”

Willy tied off the makeshift bandage, and gave the halfborn a huge grin. “You’re going to be so pleased with me, Sorren.”

“You were? Oh, that’s such a relief. It will certainly make things easier having a bit a food to -”

“It’s _better_ than food.”

“Uh… come again?” Sorren narrowed his eyes at that open smile. _Better than food_? In their current situation, what could be better than..?

Willy stood. With a grand flourish, he threw off the tarp, revealing what it was covering. It was a large crate, typical of a ship’s provisions. Sorren studied it. On the side of the crate was printed…

“No…”

“Yes! _It’s a whole crateful of pancake mix_!”

It took Sorren a full minute to realize his mouth was hanging open. He had thought he was well beyond shock at this point, but as usual Willy had proved him wrong. The glass smith looked especially pleased, preening like a rooster griffin who’s just crowed up the sun. “Now - don’t all smother me in yer praise at once! Except Sorren. Sorren can smother me in praise.”

Fiore yawned at him.

“You… you did manage to get other food as well?” Sorren asked hopefully.

Willy scoffed. “Does anyone really _need_ other food?”

Sorren supposed that was a ‘no’. He leaned back against the boat’s sides, closing his eyes in an attempt to black Willy out. His head was starting to ache.

“ - what are the odds that there would be a crate of pancake mix right on deck? I mean, I know it’s not from scratch and therefor likely inferior. I can accept that, but -”

“Well, at least there’s water.”

Willy paused and looked down at the empty canteen in his hands. He tossed it behind him as quickly as he could. “Yep! So once you’re feeling better, just whip up that flap-jack-flipping magic, Soren!” The redhead plopped back down beside the halfborn, causing the boat to rock precariously. “You know, I was kind of upset about the poor cruise planning on yer part, Sorren, but I’m willing to over look it. I mean, just look at where we are. You. Me. The supple moonlight. The gentle waves. The open sky…” Muzu pecked his head. “And Fiore and Muzu… and a boatload of pancakes! All we need is one of those little fancy drinks with the umbrellas, and it’d be paradise.” He flung an arm around Sorren’s shoulders, and tilted his head back to soak in the said moonlight and sky.

It was almost saddening how Sorren had to go and break his heart. Almost. “Willy, did you happen to bring any eggs to this little fantasy?”

“Uh…no. Why would I -”

“How about milk?”

“Umm…”

“Or oil?”

Willy screwed up his face in thought. “Oil? As in…”

“Or a frying pan?”

Willy blinked several times. “Now you’ve lost me.”

The halfborn shoved his chest. “Will! I’m talking about baking!” Willy stared at him. “The pancake mix, you… insufferable… windy… half-baked…urgh!”

Willy cocked his head, and smiled. For some reason this served to irk Sorren further. _Don’t get angry. Don’t get angry._ Thinking back on the old lessons with their mentor, Sorren took in a deep breath, picturing the quiet spring he would often go to to meditate as a youth. ‘Focus Sorren,’ Master Thanatos seemed to be whispering in his ear. Except, that only made him more annoyed. Who whispered into another person’s ear like that? Sorren released his breath at last, allowing the calm to fill him. He opened his eyes to see Willy looking concerned.

“Thought you were about to start turning blue, mate.” Muzu made a soft chuffing noise. Sorren couldn’t tell if it was an expression of concern or jest.

“Willy, despite what you seem to think, pancakes aren’t magic -”

“They are when we make them together, Sorren.”

 _I don’t have the energy to argue with that._ Sorren felt the prickling of a headache behind his eyeballs, themselves hot and dry from the fire. He leaned back on the little boat, intending to soak his eyes in sweet darkness. “Fine as that may be,” he told Willy, “you don’t just add water to pancake mix and get pancakes. What you get is sugary autolyse.”

Willy wrinkled his nose. “That sounds contagious.”

“It’s certainly sticky and unappetizing.” Sorren shifted, trying to get comfortable. “Look. We’ve argued enough today. Right now, we need to focus. Take stock. We’ve no food. No shelter. And hardly any water.”

Willy scowled at the patronizing tone. “Cut me a bit of credit would ye. I think I did pretty well, considering half the ship was on fire when I lugged that crate into this dinghy. I mean… pancake mix has to count for something. A lot, actually, I would think.”

Sorren shook his head in utter exasperation. He turned away, putting an end to the conversation. “Let’s focus on trying to find land, can we?”

Willy sat back. He stroked his beard in deep thought over this conundrum. Home was too far away to paddle for - he couldn’t do without pancakes for that long. Certainly this was a problem. And if Sorren wasn’t going to help, well, then the matter would fall to him.

 


	2. In Which Breakfast Goes Uneaten

“Sorren! Rise and shine, my pretty bird!”

Sorren groaned and rolled over. He must have fallen asleep when he’d closed his eyes. He felt like he’d slept the night in a wooden boat - oh right.

His eyes refused to open. Judging by how his body felt he couldn’t have slept for more than a handful of hours, which, no matter what Felix said, was simply not conductive to healthy living. He would keep closed his eyes and -

Something poked his cheek. _“Soorrrrreeeeeennn.”_ A voice he suspected was trying to whisper, came from above him. Long experience told him that voice wasn’t going away.

“What?” Sorren snapped, pain and exhaustion making him short. His eyes opened with great reluctance. A golden mist hung all around them, the sun painting the vapor around them with the prelude of dawn.

Willy didn’t seem to mind the flare of temper. His grin was wider than a laughing liger’s as he pointed off the bow. “Land!”

“ _Hoooo!”_ Muzu cawed from where he circled about the mast. Sorren looked from Muzu to Willy. Then he closed his eyes and pulled himself along the bond he shared with the crow until Muzu’s vision came snapping onto his own, like a pair of spectacles. In Muzu’s eyes the world looked sharper, the colors more vibrant. It took him a moment to readjust, and find what the crow was looking at. There on the hazy bend of the horizon was a long dark stripe, like the thoughtless stroke of a painter’s brush. A stripe that could mean fresh water, food, beds, and -”

“ _Pancakes…”_

**_~_ **

“Tea, Lieutenant?”

Sterling shifted, sweltering in the heat of that stuffy little cabin. The smell of the captain’s breakfast wafted over him - crispy bacon, roasted potatoes, plump sausage, omelet with mushrooms and peppers. A croissant glistened with fresh butter on it’s own little plate, the scent of which was slowly driving the lieutenant mad. Toasted bread groaned under the weight of jam spreads. The bowl of oatmeal was sprinkled with fresh cinnamon was calling to him, foul cinnamon-dusted temptress that she was.

The captain was quite renowned for these sumptuous breakfast spreads, to which many a person of standing were invited. Sterling was not such a one. His own breakfast, consisting of burgoo and scraps of burnt bacon left over from yesterday was still an hour away. His stomach whimpered at him.

 _Ancients - you’re doing this on purpose, you bastard. You know I hate tea._ Sterling inclined his head. “No, thank you sir.” There. No one could find any fault with such an object show of complete servitude. A trained truth detector couldn’t find a single trace of sarcasm in the delivery.

“Hmph.” The captain gave a snort and replaced the elegant silver teapot back on it’s elegant silver tray. Even with hair cropped short, and the captain’s jacket tight across the chest, the figure sitting across from him still looked too much like their mother for Sterling’s liking. Except for the eyes. The Captain had the cold calculating eyes of a feral drake. “Do you know why we’re here, Mister Roscoe?”

“N _ooo_. Sir.” Okay, that time he was being sarcastic. What did the man expect asking such a bumble-brained question? Only the senior officers were made privy to that classified information. True, Sterling might have been counted among those trusted ranks, but Captain Cicero didn’t seem to think so. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’d been placed under his brother’s authority as punishment for that whole court martial fiasco. Or maybe it was for the underground glasswork gladiatorial ring bust. No, no. They couldn’t possibly know about that.

Cicero leaned forward over the breakfast-laden desk, smiling coyly at Sterling over steepled fingers. Sterling hated those hazel eyes - they always seemed to be mocking him. “Perhaps you’ve heard tales of the lost Treasure of Thatch Gallows?”

“Uh, no. I can’t say I’m familiar with that one. Is it important?” The captain raised an eyebrow. “Is it important. Sir.” _I wonder if I can get Moritz to pee in the captain’s shoes,_ Sterling thought, with a glance in her direction. The dire wolf was sitting at attention at his side, holding herself in careful regard. She gave a soft snort through her nostrils, as if to say ‘not a chance in Oblivion.’

“Well, some people seem to think so. Old pirate gossip mostly, but odder things have borne fruit in these strange times.” Captain Cicero reached out to tap on the papers scattered between the platter of bacon, and the bowl of fruit on the desk for emphasis. “Gallow’s was a pirate who operated out of these parts a century or more ago. Gathered treasure from the four corners of the globe, or so the stories say. Recent reports suggest it to be here, on this island. I want it looked into before any… scavengers come sniffing around after it.”

That didn’t sound suspicious at all. “Aren’t there…agencies designed for this sort of thing? People who’s whole job is finding these sorts of things? Why are they sending the Navy on a fetch -”

“Sterling. Shut up.” Sterling shut up - but he made it clear from the scowl how much he protested doing so. A careful finger traced the edge of the butter plate. Cicero held it up for inspection and frowned with an expression not unlike the one he often leveled at Sterling. “Disgraceful. Hairs in the butter. Lorimer!”

The captain’s manservant stepped inside, and performed a slight bow. “That lousy cook should be thankful I don’t chuck him overboard. I might have been entertaining important guests.” Sterling stiffened at the jibe. “Take this back at once.” Lorimer accepted the unsatisfactory butter. Sterling had to bite his lip to keep from lunging at the golden creamy goodness drifting inches from his face. He hadn’t had butter in weeks.

“Relax. It’s just breakfast, Cicero,” Sterling griped.

Quick as a whip Cicero slammed the butter knife into a roll, where it stuck, quivering. Sterling flinched at the violence of it. “You will addresses me as befits my station, lieutenant.”

Slumping forward. “Aye, Cap’n.”

“Just breakfast,” Cicero muttered, turning away with a scowl. “It’s _just breakfast_ has won me this position.”

_Oh cock and pie, here he goes._

“When I merely a midshipman, I served breakfast every morning to my captain. Hot strudel, fifteen scrambled griffin eggs, biscuits smothered in gravy, eclairs by the handful, sausages the size of servals…” Saliva pooled in Sterling’s mouth and threatened to overflow despite numerous swallows. “And waffles the size of a hat box, drizzled with the finest golden syrups procured from the life-giving trees of the Elvian woods.” Cicero’s eyes were misty with the memory of it.

“It is a shame that heart attack took him before the ‘life-giving’ syrup took effect, sir.”

Cicero wasn’t listening; was staring out over the view of his many-paneled window. “Hmm. I’ve always strove to keep a morning meal like that. How many great battle plans were talked over those breakfasts… the strategy of the croissants flanking the cinnamon rolls… Pure genius.” Sterling rolled his eyes. This was not the first time he’d had to listen to his brother wax poetic on breakfast. “Not a day, did he miss that breakfast. Not even when those pirates were firing down on us. Lost twenty good men, and the main mast, but did I spill a single drop of tea, or allow one crust of toast to besmirch the floor?” A fist slammed into the desk, rattling the dishes. “Hell no!”

Cicero turned. “Lieutenant! What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Sterling snatched his hand away from a plate of sausage, cursing his poor timing.

Cicero huffed, clasping hands behind back. “I’m _trying_ to do you a favor, dear brother. Do right by me, and you may yet save our shared family from disgrace. This is all I ask: go to the island. Recover the treasure. Make no fool of me. You may even bring some glory to that name of yours.”

“It’s your name too. I don’t see why I’m expected to bring glory to it. ” the lieutenant gripped.

“I simply thought, given your proclivity to chase after things that shouldn’t exist -”

Sterling cocked his head, confused. “I don’t -”

“Your career, relationships, recognition.” Moritz winced in sympathy at that one. He blinked like an owl, wheeling as if he’d been struck. “I just thought you’d enjoy a treasure hunt for something that should. A scouting mission really. To map the area and determine the authenticity of the rumors. You’d be in charge of the landing party.”

He was to go ashore? Get off this bloody bark? Lead his own company? That didn’t exactly sound like Cicero - giving someone else a chance to lead and take all the glory. The Cicero he knew would rather choke on a bone. “And the strings attached?”

“What the hell, Sterling? Can’t an officer try to offer their own flesh and blood a leg up?” Sterling narrowed his eyes, searching for sincerity in those deep hazel pools one too many found themselves drowning in. Cicero was smiling too broadly to be trusted. “I _want_ you to succeed, little brother. You think any of the family are pleased with you heaping soil on our good name? Honestly, I don’t know what possessed you to drag your sorry carcass back out of that watery grave. But here you are, ans, since you had no sense to fake your death and hole yourself away in some pipe den, we’re left to try and salvage what we can of your- and our - reputations.”

Sterling frowned. Damn -why hadn’t he thought of the whole faking your death scenario at the time? It could’ve worked out so well. It couldv’e gotten him away from Cicero at least. “I… see. And that’s why you’re not going?”

“Hell, no. I’m not going because I don’t fancy tripping over poisonous vines and thorny roots in a sweltering jungle.” Cicero leaned back and reached into one of the cubbyholes where the maps were stored. Brushing away crumbs from breakfast, the captain laid down the map, smoothing it’s curled edges with long fingers. Sterling tried to lean forward to get a looks-see, but Cicero blocked his view. “We are located at the southern end of the island. You will take a party north along the beach and seek entrance into the interior. From there, the map will guide you to where the treasure is supposedly located. All you have to do is verify, and report back. Easy as you please.” The captain straightened, rolling up the faded vellum before Sterling had a chance to glimpse it.

“Meanwhile I will run a survey of the island’s westernmost point. We will rendezvous there in a few days. Think you can manage not to glitch that up, can you?”

Sterling gave a gruff, “Aye, aye, sir.”

Moritz straightened and gave a sniff of affirmation. _‘You’re far too suspicious of your brother Roscoe,’_ niggled at the back of his mind. _‘Cicero’s a good leader. You should be gracious for the chance.’_

“As if I had the choice,” Sterling growled at the wolf.

“Sterling!” Cicero’s voice snapped him back to their conversation. “You would do well to watch your wagging tongue - we’re not at home anymore. Right now I want you to get a party together and ready a boat with the supplies you’ll need. And don’t even think about trying to bring along any of the good wine bottles.”

 _Spoilsport_.

“You’re dismissed.”


	3. In Which A Lieutenant Loses His Seat

“I never thought I’d see land again!” Willy whooped as he leapt clear of the lifeboat. Sorren clambered out after him. Willy had insisted on Sorren giving his hands time to heal - after all, he couldn’t make pancakes without them. So Sorren walked ashore, looking miserable as Willy heaved and hawed and finally dragged the boat out of the surf on his own. Fiore sat in the bow and supervised.

“We were only in that boat for a few hours,” the dark halfborn pointed out.

“Yeah, but before that I wasn’t certain we wouldn’t become mindless meat puppets to Captain Scuttle-bones, back there.”

Wet sand crunched beneath the wooden hull, slipping under Willy’s feet as he dragged the boat up past the waterline. Fiore blinked at him. “You could get out and push you know, me lovely.”

_Mrreow?_

“Oh, my apologies, yer highness.” With a flourish, Willy doffed his hat to the serval.

Straightening up, Willy breathed in the heavy perfume of hibiscus that suffused the air. Beyond the beach, massive brown cliffs rose to towering heights, blocking their path inland. Greenery poked out from every ledge and crack, alive with a rainbow of tropical rune dragons, who squawked and fluttered. To either side of the two men, endless sandy beach stretched out of sight, speckled with shells and seaweed. Enormous boulders marched in step down the beach, providing shade and potential diving boards. Sunlight sparkled on the ocean water as rthe waves gently caressed the shore. Willy tilted his head back and let the soft breeze tease his beard.

It was beautiful - a castaway’s dream. Wild untamed country and inviting sandy beaches. Willy drunk it all in; the smell of verdant life and adventure just waiting to be had were intoxicating, feeling his tired soul with new energy. Amidst all this perfection, Sorren stood hunched over like some black winged vulture rune, scowling about at their private tropical paradise like it’d stolen his money purse.

“C’mon, Sorren, ye just gonna sit there trying to burn the place down with yer glare? Let’s head in land and see if we can’t find a bar that sells those drinks with the little umbrellas in them - what are they called?”

“Will - have you forgotten all of Felix’s survival exercises? Don’t you remember the first rule?”

“Always bring clean underwear.” His face fell. “Oh.”

“No, the other first rule: Stay put, and get your bearings. Do you know how many tiny islands there are in the trade routes? Thousands. And we’re no where near those routes. The likelihood of this one being inhabited is next to none.”

Willy rolled his eyes at the halfborn. “I’m no green ship’s boy to be lectured Sorren. I’ve been at sea fer a mite longer than you have. I know all about islands. This is as fine a one as ever I’ve seen. I’m sure it’ll provide all we need.”

“We can’t just go tramping through the forest without a plan. We need to find fresh water, food, a light source -”

“I don’t see what you’re so worried over,” Willy told the halfborn with a huff. “We _have_ food. Pancakes, Sorren!”

“We have _pancake mix_ , Willy. Which is basically flour and sugar.”

“Right! So all we need now is eggs, milk, uh…”

“Oil.”

“Oil! And a pan to cook them all in. And syrup o’ course.”

Sorren shook his head. “And you’re going to find all that out here.”

“Yup!”

“Will, if you manage to find all those things on this deserted island, I swear - I will make you pancakes for the rest of my natural life.”

“No foolin’?” Sorren’s two-toned eyes rolled so hard Willy thought they might fall out. “Well, if yer gonna have an attitude about this…”

“Will. We need to focus.”

“I am. I’m thinking…” Willy paused, eying Muzu as Sorren stroked the crow’s back. “Muzu looks about ready to lay an egg...” Muzu’s eyes snapped wide open in alarm.

“Be serious, Willy. Male birds don’t lay eggs,” Sorren snapped. “We’ve been over this. Remember?”

“You sure about that Sorren? ‘Cause you really laid an egg on that last mission.”

Eyes narrowed dangerously at the red head.

“And I didn’t want to say anything, but it was looking to me like Muzu’s been hitting the birdseed a little hard. Showing a mite bit thick ‘round the waist, if ye get my meaning.”

Muzu took a bite at Willy, who narrowly avoid the clacking beak. _‘Muzu!’_ the bird squawked indignantly. Sorren tried to soothe the agitated bird, but it proved fruitless.

“That’s enough. I think I would know if Muzu was about to lay. And _he_ isn’t.”

“That’s what I said about Fiore, tricky she-beast.” Fiore hopped up onto the boat’s side next to him and balanced there, taking stock of their new surroundings. The morning mist was burning off, and the rune dragons on the cliffsides were putting up more of a racket. They were everywhere, the little blighters.

“Let’s unpack the boat, and take stock of our supplies.” Sorren said as he turned towards the boat.

“Someone’s surly. I didn’t realize this cruise came with a ‘do everything Sorren says’ clause.”

Sorren whirled back to face Willy. “It was not a cruise! And if it wasn’t for your stomach we’d still be on that ship.”

“Oh aye. Cramped in the hold, gut-foundered and fighting off rats for a scrap of meal. Forgive me for wanting a little more than a handful of oats for my supper each night. No one told me the crew were all gone to a diet of worms.”

“I did tell you. You just didn’t listen. As is your typical wont for anything that doesn’t strike your mood. I swear, you hear the word ‘pancakes’ and your mind goes barren of anything else.” Muzu added a scalding remark in crow. Willy’s eyes glazed over for two seconds, before snapping back to reality.

“Oh, aye? Well, I suppose you have a better suggestion of what we might eat?” Willy gestured wildly around them, taking in the empty beach and the ocean, the thick jungle. “The sand maybe? Or a couple of rocks.” The man tossed back his red mane. “C’mon Fiore.”

The feline’s yellow eyes blinked slowly at him. The glass smith held an arm out for the serval. She heaved an elegant sigh, a sound like the flutter of elkrin feathers. Nimbly, the violet serval leapt to the perch and padded up onto the pirate’s shoulder, where she draped herself around his neck.

“Where are you going?”

“If I knew as much, I would hardly need to go scoutin’, would I? Ye can stay here if ye like. Or not. I’m off for eggs, milk, and oil.”

“And the frying pan? You expect to find one of those lying out in the jungle, do you?”

“Yes, I have the grocery list, darlin’,” Willy’s voice turned mocking. “Shall I pick up your special feather ointments too?” Sorren fumed at him, but Willy was already walking away before he could launch an attack.

Willy chewed angrily at his beard as he walked away. Fiore tapped the side of his face in concern. He hadn’t had an argument like that with Sorren in a long time - Willy hated being angry, especially over something so… so silly. But he hated being patronized even more. Sorren was supposed to be his partner, not his bloody commander. He increased his stride, hoping to burn off the unpleasant energy bubbling in every limb.

A crack between two of the massive seaside cliffs offered entry into the jungle. Willy had to turn sideways to cram himself through. Overhead, the canopy grew over, blocking the light.

The transition from open beach to forest was sudden. While the coastline was still with bated breath, under trees the jungle’s presence burst upon Willy in full force. Birds and rune dragons vied in screaming contests. Insects buzzed in fearless displays; some were alarmingly large. Humidity clung to every surface, thick with potential for new growth or decay. Vines and creepers slithered up the trunks of red barked trees, seeming to pulse before his eyes with life. Every inch, every green shadow, seemed to hold some new and unexpected treasure - a flash of gemstone-colored wings, a sprig of vibrant flowers, the husk of an ancient giant. It was glorious. It was wild. And Sorren seemed to have gotten one thing right - it was completely uninhabited.

“Ancients blast it all.”

~

Breakfast came and went in the time it took Sterling and Moritz to load the ship’s boats and row ashore. The whole operation had been something of a chaotic affair, seeing as they had had to hobble and load the eight-limbed sleipnir onto the tiny boats, and cart them across, one after another, four times, along with all the supplies needed for the expedition.

Sterling found it a bit hard to believe they would need all this stuff; that was until he saw the density of the jungle they meant to penetrate. Towering cliffs protected the island’s heart, like the walls of a giant fortress. He stared at them in dismay. There was no easy way to breach them - going over them would be out of the question.

“Last boats landed, sir,” a wolfkin sailor told Sterling. Her voice, soft and professional, was tinged with an odd lisp due to her harelip. Given the choice, Sterling had opted to bring along the gun crew he headed, they being the sailors he had the most experience with working. Not that he had very much chance to interact with them, yet. But, they were the only members of ship who’s names he could be bothered to remember, and so they were the only ones he could call on.

“Very good, Mistress Eada’lbahr,” Sterling confirmed, tripping ungainly over the Darak'i pronunciation. “Take half our crew to oversee loading our supplies onto the sleipnir. Start the rest on finding a path through these blasted rocks.”

“Aye, sir.” The woman bowed her head meekly. Straightening she immediately dropped her sweet act, and began shouting orders in an abrasive tone that made Sterling wince. He couldn’t tell whether or not he liked her yet, but he was definitely glad he was her superior, and not the other way round.

Sterling stretched, relishing the feeling of freedom from his tight jacket. Leaving the ship, and all it’s propriety had given him the excuse to strip to his shirtsleeves. He was near about ready to burn that blasted uniform after a month’s worth of serving in these hot climes. Most captains were a little more lenient on officer dress policies once they were out at sea, but not Cicero. Sterling had a nagging suspicion his own presence on board had altered that policy. If he thought he’d be able to get away with it, he would’ve shed his boots as well - it certainly would’ve made walking through the white sands a lot easier.

Moritz beside him, had lifted her nose to catch the scents rolling in on the small breeze. She was shifting on her haunches, impatient to finally be on land again. Her canine desires to run and sniff all the new scents were held back only by years of training. Sterling paid her no mind - as was usual. _‘I hate to be a bother, but do you think there will be any chance of breakfast?’_

“Breakfast? I’d say not,” Sterling grumbled, more to himself than the wolf. Glitches, but he would’ve killed for some jackalope jerky, or better yet, those waffles smothered in butter and cinnamon Cicero seemed so very fond of. He looked toward the jungle, as if wishing it may produce the means of a mid-morning banquet. There wasn’t much there to see - cliffs rose all around the beach, but above their bare faces, the lieutenant could clearly see a dense wig of greenery. “Think there’s anything worth eating on this ancients-forsaken island?”

_‘I’m sure there’s plenty, but we haven’t time for hunting. Besides - didn’t we load food in the boats?’_ Moritz watched as one of the sailors lashed a large sack of meal to a sleipnir’s back, confirming her question as soon as she posed it.

“Bah - salt beef and oatmeal.” Sterling chewed at his lip in thought - or maybe hunger; his mind thinking of fresh oranges, plantains, and cinnamon bark.

_‘Sterling.’_ Mortiz trod on his imaginary oranges with a warning tone. She could tell immediately where his mind was wondering.

“Cicero didn’t say we had to _‘hurry’_ ,” Sterling pointed out. “I’m not saying, we ‘delay’ exactly, but… maybe we could start by… surveying the island; getting to know her charms. We are meant to make a full report, after all. And I daresay the crew would welcome a bit of fresh fruit, maybe more so than a few forgotten doubloons. So what if it takes us an extra day or two to get back?”

_‘You are an officer!’_ Moritz cried, hackles rising. By her tone, Sterling could tell she was not at all surprised by this turn of events - her reaction was merely her duty in playing his conscious. Sterling could respect that - and also ignore it.

“An officer who needs a vacation - I was going stir crazy on that ship.”

_‘You were wallowing on shore leave for four months before this. Cicero was the only one who would give you a position. I had to talk you out of taking up a career as a professional card house builder on two separate occasions, which again, I am fairly certain is not an actual career.’_

“Are you hungry or not?”

Moritz’s stomach gurgled in response. She had to be as tired of their paltry rations as he was. Sterling grinned in triumph.

Ignoring any further protests, the man shook out the map to examine it. His heart fell at the sight. It was crudely rendered, just a rough outline of the island with a few landmarks. It almost looked as if Cicero had torn it from a children’s book, and might have been decades old to judge the flowery decals. It showed their destination located at the very heart of the island, under a little scrawl that seemed to be a mountain. Around the mountain were a handful of decorative landmarks - an elkrin, a large circle, a wandering line that might have been a river, two intergrown trees, a couple of squiggly lines that seemed to be a lagoon, and what looked to be a giant fly swatter. Taking out a piece of charcoal, Sterling marked where he guessed the ship to be roughly located - the southwestern side of the island. He scanned the area. Above them loomed a huge brown boulder, with a massive crack splitting it’s side. Hundreds of rune dragons roosted in this rock, flying in and out. He quickly jutted down a note about a ‘rune dragon rock’.

Cicero had noted the ship’s current coordinates, but had left no indication of where Sterling was meant to rendezvous with the ship beyond the direction ‘north’. His immediate thought was the captain was marooning him here - but that seemed harsh even by Cicero’s standards. _Obviously, he just wants me to do all the hard navigational work._ He picked up the box containing cooking utensils from the boat, and hauled it ashore, yelling for the sailors loading it onto the sleipnir to be careful with it.

The sailors readied the sleipnir quicker than Sterling thought possible. They were a pretty good group all told - eight in total they were, with him as the odd ninth. The ship’s crew had been together for months before his arrival - a goodly sum even following Cicero from a previous command. Even the landlubbers among them knew how to work well and efficiently with their comrades. Among their familiar jibes and calls Sterling stood out like a drake amongst the hens.

“A’ right, sir.” Hamir walked up to him, her voice and manner once again soft and polite. She was a topman by trade, Sterling seemed to recall, as quick on her feet as she was with that tongue. “We’re ready to embark. The steeds are looking handsome. Which will ye be taking?” Sterling cast an eye over the equine flesh. The sleipnir, a small, feisty breed called Tangled Blossom, seemed as perfectly suited to this close environment as they were in the ship’s tiny stables. They were not handsome, but they had their charms. Like most native creatures they still held a few fragments of the magic that pulsed throughout the land, and colored their hides in a riot of pastel pinks and yellows.

Snapping the map closed, Sterling said swiftly, “I’ll take the pinkest spider-pony; on the end there.” He nodded at the beast, who seemed the least likely to kill him than the others. The creature really was a magnificent shade of pink. No fear of him getting lost out there in the jungle with that thing.

_‘You have ridden a sleipnir before, haven’t you?’_ Moritz asked, as Sterling strode towards the equine.

“Of course.” He took the reins from the sailor holding the creature, a gunner called Dorsett. “Though - I haven’t been in a saddle in a few years.”

Dorsett made a scoffing sound. “Ye’ll be fine, sor.” Sterling thought he might have caught an eyeroll as he mounted the scrawny little beast. Hurt pride roiled in his belly. “Jus’ hold tight the reins and ye’ll get along, pretty as ye please.” Snickers drifted up from the crew, though their exact origins the lieutenant could not pinpoint.

“Look - it may’ve been a few years for me, but all us Roscoe men are famed for our riding skills.”

The sniggers only seemed to increase. One of the sailors spoke a little too loudly. “Wonder what that leaves the Roscoe women to be famed for.” His compatriots burst into guffaws. Hamir was shaking her head, trying to keep from grinning.

Sterling struggled to hide his increasing flush. He desperately tried to recall some of the riding tricks he’s seen his eldest brother Acacius perform. He gave a kick to the sleipnir’s belly, and the animal trotted to the front of the line, the packs rattling loudly. Moritz looked more than a little apprehensive as she followed close behind.

“Forward!” Sterling cried. The sailors rushed to their places besides the packed sleipnir, still trying to stifle their giggles. “March!” Sterling jerked back harshly on the sleipnir’s reins, and gave the beast a hard kick. The startled pink leapt in surprise, back legs surging forward as the beast’s forelegs pulled back in a magnificent rear. Sterling would’ve looked very impressive indeed as his sleipnir pawed the air with four legs - that was, he would’ve if he weren’t sliding backwards off the damn thing.

The lieutenant toppled from the saddle almost gracefully. He hit the sand with a loud thud. The watching sailors were so startled by the sudden change from glorious officer on a brilliant pink sleipnir, to unhorsed officer sprawled in the sand dodging a freaked out sleipnir, that they forgot to even laugh.

The pink sleipnir surged forward, free of the hapless’ lieutenant’s weight, and took off towards the trees. The packs on it’s back jangled even as the animal disappeared from view. The last Sterling saw of it was a flash of pink tail waving mockingly, before disappearing behind a cliff. At least now they had a clear path to access the jungle, but at Sterling's expense.

“Shut up, all of you!”

“But sir, we didn’t say anything.”


	4. In Which Mettle is Tested

The jungle thrummed with life all around Willy and Fiore. Butterflies the size of his head fluttered by on lazy wings, just out of reach, and humming bumbles darted to and from tiny flowers the breath of a fingernail. Rune dragons, in a riot of motley plumage bounced on vines overhead, happily squawking to their neighbors. It was as if the wildlife here had never learned to treat warily with humankind. Or servalkind for that matter.

“That’s it Fiore!” Willy encouraged the fluorescent feline as she shifted through the sub canopy with practiced grace. Her eyes zoned in on a rune dragon bobbing on the branch before her. It was making a sound like a love-sick bassoon player. The little creature looked at Fiore, then down at Willy, then back to Fiore. The sea serval slunk up right next to the little rune. Suddenly it unleashed a horrid squawking and began batting at her with it’s wings. Willy maneuvered himself under the rune, arms outstretched to catch any incoming eggs. “Nice Runie! Old Willy just wants one little egg or two.”

The serval lifted a paw and smacked the rune dragon in the eye. With an offended squawk the rune shuffled along the branch to get away from her, glaring angrily. Fiore swatted at it again. “Maybe try a bit more charm, Fiore?” Fiore glanced down at Willy. Slowly she raised a paw, and smacked the rune across the nose. “You’ve been taking charm lessons from Sorren, I see.”

The rune remained uncharmed. It’s feathers fluffed up until it looked like a giant puffball. It looked past Fiore, and giving a startled bassoon blast, took to the air in a flurry.

“Maybe she wasn’t -” A loud crash cut Willy off. A bright flash of pink streaked through the green jungle. Willy dove for the ground, just narrowly avoiding getting trampled by a bright pink sleipnir. As the creature galloped past, Willy caught sight of an empty saddle and packs on it’s back.

“Fiore! Quick! Stop that runaway slipslop!”

The serval took off after the fleeing equine, bounding from vine to vine with more agility than a tightrope walker. She leapt from one tree to the next, keeping pace with the sleipnir as it struggled through the crowded foliage. Willy scrambled after it, following the wake of destruction. The sound of branches cracking, of vines snapping, filled the forest. A swarm of angry humming bumbles rose up behind the sleipnir, buzzing alarm calls. They rained insults and pecks on Willy’s poor head, as he barreled past.

A large _snap_! followed by an ear-splitting whinny, made Willy’s heart jump into his throat. It wasn’t a sound anyone wanted to hear. He ran into a glade after the sleipnir.

In the glade was a spring, overflowing a bed of rock to cascade a short distance into a little pool. Around the pool had grown up a tangle of dense vines and brush, which the sleipnir had fallen into and was struggling to escape. Eight limbs flailed wildly. It’s reins had twisted around a woody vine, trapping the animal’s head. Willy ran forward, instinct compelling him to free the animal before it harmed itself. He dodged a wayward hoof, and clawed at his boot to bring out the dirk he carried there. The supplies on the animal’s back clattered and clanged as it fought, the sounds harsh and metallic after so long listening to pleasant birdsong. On it’s pack was tied a canteen, a tin cup, and - “A frying pan!” Willy could’ve danced with joy, if he wasn’t trying so hard to avoid getting brained by a hoof. Oh, he’d make Sorren cook him up some pancakes, alright!

“Steady there, bucko. We’ll get ye out in two shakes o’ a wolf’s tails.” The sleipnir snorted, eyes rolling. It’s bright pink neck was streaked with sweat; nostrils flaring red. It was in no hurry to calm down and let the man get near. “If you’re a good little spider-pony, I’ll split my share of pancakes with ye. With extra syrup. Ye like syrup, mate? O’ course you do. I can tell ye have good taste.”

Maybe it was the man’s soothing tones; maybe it was the promise of pancakes, but the sleipnir did began to quiet. It’s breathing seemed to steady, it’s legs grew still. It was probably the pancakes. Pancakes always managed to calm Willy down when he was being temperamental.

“There ya go, me bonnie.” Willy reached out through the brambles to run a hand down the trembling, sweat-soaked neck. “I’m gonna call ye Raylene, after a girl I used to know,” he announced happily, bending to begin the task of cutting the vines holding the creature. The sleipnir flicked an ear towards the man curiously. “She were a handful too, but for the right price she’d sweeten up just lovely. Never did learn what that price was, but ‘twas me, it’d be pancakes.” The vine snapped, and Willy set to work on the next one, chattering away to the beast.

He reached out to run a reverent finger down the cold steel of the frying pan. It was magnificent. A little dinged up around the edges maybe, but as perfect a specimen as one could hope to find in a jungle. His first task was within his reach. Surely the Ancient of Luck had licked his toes that night. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t going to feel a little bit smug when he walked back to Sorren with frying pan in hand, like a conquering hero. Once Sorren realized Willy had things well in hand, he was sure the halfborn would lighten up a bit.

“Now it don’t please me any to see Sorren in the wrong, but, well... It is pleasing to be in the right sometimes.” Raylene snorted heavily. Willy sat back to scratch at his beard. “Yeah, I s'ppose it is a bit petty. Sorren’s my best mate after all. But with that bird it’s all work, work, work and no room for anything else. What about Willy, eh? I just wanted to enjoy a few pancakes with ‘im. Sometimes I feel his being a Watch Crow is more important than being with me, ye know?” The sleipnir blew out.

"To be honest... makes one feel rather like I'm nothing more than a... a pet to be kept at home, and taken out only when one needs to go somewhere. We used to be a team. But Sorren's always the one taking the reins lately, with his Watch Crow business. I feel like I'm carrying this burden, trying to be there for him. It wears on ye. Ye just wanna cut loose sometimes. Ye ever feel like that, Raylene?"

The sleipnir blinked at him. 

"Nay. I suppose ye haven't." 

Fiore settled on a branch to watch, sending her chosen human waves of silent encouragement. She held out a paw to clean the smell of rune dragon off it, when something made her hackles rise. The serval sat up. There was something…off. She scented the air. There was no smell other than the damp and the earth, and the musky odor of sleipnir. She tried listening. It was then she realized that the constant squawking that had followed them all morning had gone silent. She surged to her feet.

“Ye know, ye’re a fine listener, Raylene.” Willy patted the sleipnir, just as Fiore let out a yowl.

Suddenly a huge snake’s head burst from the pool, shattering the calm.

The sleipnir screamed. Willy had only seconds to grab hold of the frying pan before he was thrown back as a huge Green Tree Basilisk rose out of the pool. The hardened feather-like crest on the back of it’s head rattled ominously. Willy scrambled backwards, holding the pan out before him, in the ready position. He’d never seen a wild basilisk before - the only ones he’d ever had dealings with were bonded to necromancers, or the snakelets sold in the bazaar to misguided young people hoping to complete their pet collections. This one was no snakelet, but a fully fledged young adult; already several feet of the thing were visible as it lifted out of the water.

The long forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air. The sleipnir’s struggles increased tenfold, its screams ripping through the humid air, but it only managed to entangle itself further. The basilisk’s head whipped around to focus on the sleipnir, its eyes glowing in the dark jungle shade. The pink sleipnir stopped in its fighting, freezing in the trance of those eyes. Leaning down, the forked tongue flickered lazily over the equine’s trembling sides, drinking in the sweat and fear scent. As the serpent drew back to strike, Raylene let out a weak whinny. Six, huge fangs unhinged as it opened its jaw, squirting venom. A drop of that stuff could bring down a full grown drake. A tiny vial went for countless baubles on the black market. Sorren had broken up one such illegal trade before.

“Go suck an egg, you overgrown noodle!” A rock came flying out of the jungle. It smacked the basilisk on the nose. Startled it snapped its mouth shut. With an angry hiss its attention turned onto Willy with lightning speed. _In retrospect, maybe throwing a rock at the big angry snake-monster was a bad idea._

The basilisk lunged for Willy. He rolled to the side and shielded himself behind the pan. _Screee!_ A metallic scraping set Willy’s own teeth on edge as a fang glanced off the bottom of the pan. Raylene, the spell of the monster’s gaze broken, started up the frightful screaming and thrashing all over again. The enormous serpent recoiled from the pan, spitting angrily. It’s scales scraped over the stones surrounding the pool - coil after coil, the basilisk hoisted its body out of the water. Willy was forced to back away, as the glade filled with more and more feet of scaled muscle. After twelve it started to feel a little ridiculous. Just how long did it need to be?

From her perch Fiore hissed and spat, but the great snake paid her no mind. It flashed it’s fangs at Willy, squirts of paralyzing venom splashing against the rocks. That was all the warning it gave before it rushed the man. Willy had a moment to see inside it’s gullet, before he dove aside. He plummeted into a tangled knot of foliage. Vines snapped and whipped around him.

The basilisk’s head dove in after him, but the vines snagged around the spines of the beast’s head, halting it’s lunge just short of the the man’s skin. Just the tiniest of nicks would leave Willy paralyzed within seconds. He pressed back into the thicket as far as he could go. The fetid breath of the giant serpent followed him, but the needle-like fangs could not reach. The basilisk snapped and flailed, fighting the vines to close the inch wide gap between it and the meddlesome glass smith. In frustration, it spat venom onto the man’s coat. “Urgh!” _I really hope this doesn’t leave a stain._ Sorren had been very clear about what would happen the next time he ruined another garment.

Willy heaved back and shoved the metal pan into the gaping maw. The basilisk crunched down. A horrible _crack!_ resonated through the jungle. Willy thought he saw something like surprise pass behind those malicious eyes. And then the beast was rearing back in pain. Hot blood poured from two little sockets where it’s front fangs had been. It thrashed wildly, spraying blood across the ground.

Willy could’ve kissed that lovely frying pan, if it weren’t currently covered in a mess of venom and gore. Instead, Willy took the opportunity to look down at the mess the basilisk had made of his coat, ruining its blushing pink hue with sickly green venom. Something warm and soft pushed against his arm then. Willy looked down. “Ah, Fiore, ye came to save the day, eh?” The serval looked up at him, whiskers twitching. She reached out a soft paw and batted his silly grin. With the same paw, she then extended her claws and scraped at his soaked coat. “Stop that! What - ah ha...” Fiore’s claws glistened with the venom as she extracted her paw. “Think it’ll work on ‘em? But I haven’t nothing to stab the scaly brute with.” He’d lost the dirk during the ambush. It was still somewhere by Raylene.

Fiore paused to look up at him. With a silent wave of her tail, she directed his eyes to just outside the thicket, where a gleaming basilisk fang lay. It was as long as his entire forearm, and white as the Gravekeeper’s skull. While the basilisk writhed in pain, he slipped out of the vines, and reached for the fang. It felt like polished ivory in his hands - smooth and cool, and very much alive, still thrumming with energy. It was lighter than he would’ve suspected, it’s tip sharp enough to cleave a hair.

The basilisk had turned its attention back to the sleipnir. Its front fangs might be gone, but that made it no less dangerous, and no less furious. Raylene was in its sights. The sleipnir gave a few futile bucks, but the basilisk’s gaze seemed to have locked its muscles in place. A pink tongue traced down the trapped sleipnir’s neck, searching for the perfect place to strike, where the blood beat was strongest.

Willy crept up behind the snake’s tail, adjusting his grip on the fang. If this worked, all it should take was a quick jab. Right? He lifted the weapon.

He hadn’t the time to even register surprise when the tail whipped him full in the face. The force slammed him against a tree. There was a horrible _pop_ , which for a second he feared was his spine, before realizing it had been the frying pan smacking into the trunk beside him. The basilisk turned to face this irksome human, its hiss taking on an exasperated tone. It struck with its tail again, pinning Willy to the tree before he had chance to draw a breath, the coils working to tighten and secure him. Willy’s hand was pinned to his side, the fang fallen uselessly to the ground. The coils wrapped tighter. The basilisk was going to squeeze the life out of him. Every instinct screamed at Willy to fight, but he knew that would only quicken his demise.

The muscles bore down on him with enough force to drive the bark of the tree into Willy’s back relentlessly. The basilisk loomed before his eyes, lights bursting behind it. A venom-soaked tongue flicked his hair. Willy tried not to flinch. The scent of hot blood wafted into his face. Huge globules of the stuff dripped onto his boots. He heard his ribs start to creak, and wondered just which part of him would break first.

Satisfied that this pest wasn’t going anywhere, the basilisk, turned to check on the much tastier sleipnir. It reeled back in mild surprise, it’s tongue doing a double-take of the air. There was another heat signature there.

On the sleipnir’s saddle sat a warmblooded creature, gently kneading the saddle leather under her soft paws.

The basilisk hissed. It had had enough of these games. Leaning in, it began to extend its fangs, unhinging them for the final plunge.

Fiore looked at the big snake with an air of nonchalance. She regarded the giant monster with no more interest than she might an annoying customer. In one fluid movement, she reached out, unsheathed her claws, and swiped them across the basilisk’s soft nose.

The great green head flew up in surprise. It shook its snout, blood raining down on the panicked sleipnir. It snorted, and with a roar plunged towards the upstart serval. Before it could deliver a blow it suddenly halted. It tried to close it’s jaw and found it properly frozen. With a hiss it began to smack and drag its head against the earth, trying to bring feeling back into it’s snout.

Willy felt the coils around him tighten alarmingly - if he was squeezed any more something was going to give, most likely his spleen. Then the grip slackened suddenly. Quickly, he shoved the coils off himself, clambering over the rows of snake as it roiled on the jungle floor. The venom took almost instant effect. The basilisk’s movements slowed. Its thrashings became less and less vigorous as the neurotoxin took effect.

It was like watching an action slowed down, ten times. The great serpent stretched upwards, twitching unnaturally, as muscle after muscle seized up.

With agonizing slowness, it keeled over. The ground shook as it hit the forest floor, sending up a shower of fallen leaves and broken foliage. Willy almost felt bad for the thing. But, he reasoned, it was its own fault for tangling with Fiore. He whistled. That sea serval sure as glitches didn’t mess around.

The elegant serval herself was seated on the sleipnir’s saddle, shaking her paw free of the gooey venom. Raylene was so still, Willy at first feared the snake had struck the sleipnir after all. But it seemed the animal was just frozen in shock. “Eh, what’s wrong girl? Never seen a giant basilisk downed with one blow from the mighty paw of the Fabulous Feline Fiore?” Willy winked at the two of them. At least, he’d meant to wink -it came across as more of a wince. His ribs were still feeling a bit crushed.

A rattling hiss made Willy jump and spin to face the basilisk. His heart thundered back into panic mode. The giant serpent was slowly coiling in on itself, scales turning an ashen grey as if it were becoming stone. Willy took a cautious step forward, leaning down to scoop up the frying pan. He reached out and gave the great serpent a poke with it. Something that sounded surprisingly like Sorren, if slightly higher pitched, seemed to be yelling in the back of his mind not to poke giant sleeping snakes with frying pans. And while tiny inner Sorren made some excellent points, to be taken under consideration at a later date, right now Willy was already poking the thing.

It didn’t move. It didn’t even twitch. Willy gave it an extra poke to be sure. An eyelid snapped open. The man leapt back, and stumbled into Raylene, who snorted in fear. The slit pupil with it’s ring of mottled color rolled around in the socket like a stray marble. Other than that, it seemed unable to move. Still, Willy agreed with tiny inner Sorren at that moment that they should leave as quickly as possible. Obviously the paralyzing effects of the venom worked in the basilisk, but there was no telling if the lethality was the same.

Willy shook off the pan, and straightened to look around at the mess they’d made of this clearing. A giant, petrified basilisk, the undergrowth in shambles, blood and venom all over the ground. It truly was a gruesome sight. A gleam of white caught his eye. He reached down and pulled the basilisk tooth out of the muck. He turned it over in his hands before pocketing it - spoils of war, and all that.

He took one more look at the mess they had made of the place.

“Say Raylene, Fiore. What do you say we don’t tell Sorren about this?”


	5. Containing Within an Account of Butterously Deilcious Evil

Willy cut Raylene free, and dragged the sleipnir out of the vines. It was no easy task, seeing as how the equine refused to move near the giant petrified basilisk. Though Fiore protested, Willy insisted she be dunked in the pool and cleaned off. Luckily the bright green venom made it easy to detect and clean up. He used the frying pan to dump panfuls of water over Raylene’s coat. The venom washed off easily, but the blood and dirt proved more stubborn. Fiore left the pool shaking off each paw with affronted dignity.

Afterward, Fiore claimed Raylene’s saddle as her own domain, which she had rightly earned. Raylene seemed quite at ease knowing the mighty sea serval was keeping watch. Willy led the motley group back through the jungle brimming with excitement.

“Sorren’s gonna be right proud of us, girls!” And he spun the frying pan in his hand with practiced skill.

It was simple enough to retrace their steps back to the beach. Sorren had left the area they had landed, but scraps of crow feathers made him easy enough to track. Willy and the others walked down the beach, enjoying the breeze off the ocean, and the play of the wavelets on the tropical shoreline. Willy’s footsteps came up short when he reached a tumble of rocks. There stood Sorren atop a flat boulder, hands extended, eyes loosely closed. Suddenly a flurry of movement; black and grey. Muzu flew around him in weaving circles, dipping under his arms and legs as the halfborn spun, kicking and hitting at an invisible foe.

Willy had seen the two do these dances before, but it was usually with a sword or staff, Sorren slicing at the crow as he dodged the weapon. Ne’er was a feather ever clipped in their practice. The bird rolled over the back of the Sorren’s hand, darting in close to the halfborn’s eyes, and away, then swooping back down and up in a curve - his claws scraping so close to Sorren’s scalp they could pull off a single stray hair and no more. Sorren whipped his bandaged hand around, a show of force and control, never quite hitting the bird, though coming close.

The two were so perfectly in sync with one another, Willy, victory forgotten, watched entranced. The tempo of their dance increased to a frenzied pace, Sorren’s hands jabbing quickly, as the crow weaved in and out of his reach, like a black shuttle through a living loom. Sorren lashed out with a kick, and the crow dove across his leg, in close and up.

At last Willy felt his gaze growing more awkward than admiring. He crowed out “Sorren!” and interrupted their mock fight.

Sorren’s eyes snapped open. He looked around and was greeted by the sight of a man in a pink coat, leading a pink sleipnir topped by a pink serval hurrying across the beach towards him. To any other person this would’ve been cause to run in the opposite direction. To Sorren, it seemed a typical Tuesday.

He dropped down from the rocks, bending his knees to take the landing.

Willy took note of the makeshift shelter Sorren had conjured up, here amid the rocks. He had managed to prop the life boat against a boulder to form a snug little wind break with the rocks at their back. In the center of this he’d constructed a small fire pit.

“Ob’s bobs!” Willy whistled impressed in spite of himself. “A man could get used to this - roof overhead, a crate of pancakes waiting to be cooked up, a pretty bird and a hot fir - well, a pretty bird to come home to at least. Ye’re gonna give me a craving for the domestic life, Sorren.” At this Sorren scowled, as Willy knew the compliment would.

The halfborn narrowed his eyes, taking in the unsightly stains that covered Willy’s clothing, and the sleipnir’s coat. It looked like the equine and he had gotten into a bar fight. Fiore also looked uncharacteristically damp. “What happened to you?”

“Oh, uh. Nothing much. Found a new friend.” He dragged the reins forward, bringing Raylene to the forefront. Sorren raised an eyebrow, taking in the bright pink creature, trembling, covered in dirt and leaves, and with half it’s mane stuck straight up with some sort of viscous fluid that had dried hard. “Say hello to Sorren, Raylene. No worries, he doesn’t bite. Well, he don’t bite sleipnir at least.” _Not sure how safe I am from getting chewed out._

“You _named_ it? Willy, we’ve been over this. This sleipnir obviously belongs to someone. Where did you even find it?” Another thought dawned on him, even as he berated Willy. “This means we’re not alone on this island.”

“Or she swam here.” Willy shrugged. “I only saw Raylene. Helped her out of a spot of bother, right girl?” He patted the sleipnir’s flank. The creature looked like it was about to fall into a nervous breakdown at any second. Willy chuckled warmly. He lifted his hand and twirled the frying pan. As he hoped, the utensil immediately caught Sorren’s eye. The halfborn struggled to hide his shock.

“Where did that come from?”

“Oh, this old thing?” Willy flipped and caught it easily. “Found it on Raylene’s saddlebags. Just my luck eh?”

Sorren glowered.

“Huh. I seem to recall someone saying something, about finding a frying pan laying out in the jungle? And about… cooking up some pancakes?”

Sorren crossed his arms. His eyes continued to glower, but there was just a touch of respect, however reluctant as he said. “I’ll admit to it. I’m impressed. I wasn’t expecting you to find a frying pan way out there. But that’s still only one of the essential items.”

Willy held up a finger. “Ah, but there ye’re wrong, bird-o-mine. Fer standing before ye is the second ingredient.”

Sorren tilted his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Dare I even ask..?”

Willy threw up his hands like a street side barker selling a bridge. “Yes! Raylene’s gonna be our milk supply!”

Sorren’s eyes widened. “Raylene…I… uh…The sleipnir?”

“Aye.”

“The sleipnir. Right here? This slepnir?”

Willy nodded sagely. Raylene trembled.

“I’m not sure how much milk you expect to get.”

The glass smith crossed his arms. “Clearly you underestimate a hungry Amadeus.”

“Clearly.” Sorren reached out to let the frightened animal sniff his hand. The halfborn, despite working up a sweat with Muzu was probably the most pleasantly perfumed of the lot of them, owing that he wasn’t covered in muck, and Raylene appreciated it. The slepnir blew a friendly puff on him. “Willy. Do you know anything about milking?”

“Do I know a thing or two ‘bout milking?” Willy snorted. “I know all there is to know about milking. They used to call me Milk Man Amadeus.”

“Did they now? So you know where the milk comes from.”

“’Course. Ye see Sorren, warm-bloods give milk. Eggs come from the non-warm-bloods. And oil comes from vegetative-plants. Everything has it’s place in the grand scheme of pancake making - it is what connects all living things. Now we just hunker down, and wait for Raylene to lay some milk.” Fiore leapt to Willy’s outstretched arm, and draped herself across his shoulders. Willy walked to the fire pit.

“Oh, I see now…” Sorren looked into the sleipnir’s soft eyes, as he stroked the velvety nose. Raylene blew out softly onto the halfborn. He shared a small conspiratorial smile with the sleipnir.

“Hey Sorren!” Willy called. He had shed his coat, and was holding it out at arm’s length. “Do you happen to know if basilisk venom washes out?”

Sorren heaved a sigh. “I’m just not going to ask.” He looped Raylene’s reins around a nearby palm, and patted the animal’s neck. “Let’s get these heavy packs off you.” Sorren undid the girth, and began to pull the heavy saddle off the sleipnir’s back. All of a sudden, black spots shot across his vision. Pain flared across his palms. The saddle toppled from his hands. Muzu cawed in alarm.

“Sorren?” Willy was by his side in an instant. Sorren spat out a string of colorful language directed at the saddle, and Willy found himself equal parts concerned and impressed.

“It’s fine,” Sorren spat. “Can’t get a grip with these damn bandages.”

“Well, little wonder. They’re soaked through.” Sorren looked down, and saw with dismay that the makeshift bandages were bright red. Willy grabbed his wrists, and forced him to sit down in the shade. “Your father must’a been part loon, ye great dod!” Willy rifled through the fallen packs. Inside he found a bag of dried salt beef - or maybe it was sleipnir, but he didn’t want to offend Raylene - a tinderbox, a canteen, and a medical kit with fresh bandages. He undid the straps to reveal a bedroll, and a box containing quite an assortment of cutlery.

Willy picked up the canteen, and the medical kit and stomped back to Sorren. The halfborn winced at the look in Willy’s eyes. They held a cold sort of anger that ate away at the space between them. Sorren refused to hold his gaze. He kept his head down, looking at his hands.

“Ye didn’t even stop to think, did ya?” Sorren felt Willy sit down next to him, but didn’t look up. The man reached for his hand. He yanked it towards him a bit more forcibly then was needed, before beginning to tend it.

“I didn’t feel anything. Will -we needed a shelter and fire -” Even as he said it, Sorren sounded to himself like a petulant child. He hadn’t been doing the one thing he’d been trained to do - think.

Willy called him out on it. “And the dam of that was a serval’s whisker, eh? Aye, and ye thought to show me one better, and would kill yerself doing it.”

The halfborn bristled at the accusation. “I thought I’d keep us both _alive_.”

Willy rolled his eyes. Sorren growled, but before he could offer a response Willy pulled the rags off the wounds, causing Sorren to hiss in pain.

“And what good would shelter do for us if you couldn’t hold a pan to cook the damn pancakes Sorren! We’d be as empty-bellied as dormice living in a shrine o’ Hubris. What then?” Willy took a shaky breath, as he surveyed the wounds. He ran a rough finger across the smooth palm.“Shouldn’t’ve take the name of pancakes in vain - sorry.”

Sorren had to choke on a laugh, feeling suddenly lightheaded. Only Willy would apologize for swearing against pancakes, and in the same breath blaspheme the Ancient Slayer. It was always pancakes with Willy. But delicious flapjacks aside, Sorren had to agree with Willy. There was no telling what the next few days, even weeks had in store for the two of them. Losing the use of his hands would benefit neither of them. But, “You could’ve stayed and helped -”

Willy splashed water over the wound, stopping that comment with a hiss. Willy glared at him, eyes daring further comment. Sorren could feel the seething anger beneath it, like a core of iron he couldn’t bend or break. “I’m not a child to be scolded,” the halfborn muttered. “And neither are you, so stop acting - Ow!”

“Sorry,” Willy muttered, bent over the task of wrapping the new bandage. He didn’t sound sorry.

“Don’t waste our water,” Sorren snapped, seeing Willy reach for the canteen to clean his left hand.

Willy clucked his tongue like an impatient mother hen. “I found a spring of fresh water Sorren. Or rather, Raylene found it. Soon as I finish with you, I’ll fetch us some.” He started to clean Sorren’s other hand.

“Oh.” The fire of argument inside him sputtered and sank lower into a pit of resentment. Willy really did seem to have this all worked out - the stains on his coat aside. The halfborn watched in silence as Willy cleaned and bandaged his wounds, feeling about as useful as a stump.

Willy wiped his hands of a job well done, and stood. “Now Fiore,” he spoke sternly, setting the feline down beside Sorren. “I want you to make sure Sorren gets ‘is rest and don’t strain himself. If he gets up, you give him a right smack in the nose, alright?” For some reason the sleipnir’s head came up in sudden alarm at that. Fiore extended a paw and began to wash.

“What if I need to relieve myself?”

“Now yer just being smart.” Willy scowled at him, locked eyes with Fiore, and then turned to throw their canteens over Raylene’s back.

Sorren looked down at the pink sea serval, who had settled on his lap and was purring loudly. It was then Sorren realized that Willy hadn’t answered his question, smart or no. Well, there could be no arguing with Fiore. Once the serval got something in her mind there was no getting out of it. His fingers itched to start the fire, or clean the stains off Willy’s coat, though considering he’d mentioned something about basilisk venom that seemed like a poor idea in his current state.

Resigned, Sorren laid his head back against the rock, and reached out along the link he shared with Muzu. A thought came to him then - he might not be able to do much good, but Muzu could.

Sorren’s view of black dissolved into sight, and he felt Muzu’s warm welcome. He found the crow pecking at a shell on the beach. Muzu was a reliable fellow, but he did sometimes need reminding to keep focused every now and then. _Muzu, think you could go and explore the island? Find out where Raylene came from?_

The crow cawed in agreement. Sorren stayed with the crow as he took off, enjoying the sensation of flying through the bird’s eyes, and trying to get a better sense of the landscape around them. Muzu climbed higher over the cliffs and trees. Through Muzu, Sorren could see the island’s center rose to a steep point, flanked by more of the huge cliffs that ringed it’s shores. He looked for any sign of civilization - a cleared patch of land, smoke on the horizon, the billowing clouds of sails. But nothing. The land was large, it’s inner sanctum a tangle of foliage too dense for even Muzu’s eyes to pierce. Sorren wondered if Willy were underneath the shield of green his crow was looking out over even now, and what else might be lurking just out of sight as well.

Muzu flew out over the trees, scolding the squawking rune dragons. He circled around several times, before he found a break in the trees and swooped beneath the canopy. The light went out as Muzu left the sunlight for the shadows beneath the trees. The jungle was a riot of activity. Rune dragons fluttered through the leaves, squawking and whistling to each other, as they gorged on nuts and berries. Humming bumbles darted across the crisscrossing vines, looking like floating flowers, as they danced across the space. Bright purple flowers dangled from thick woody vines, dangling their lewd anthers like fishing lures to the passing fauna.

He and Muzu flew hither and dale for quite a while, delighting in the feeling of flight. The air here was stale and warm; Muzu had to work a bit harder at staying aloft, but the crow loved diving and twisting through the vines that hung like curtains throughout the canopy. Sorren shared in his small joy of flight, feeling as if he were soaring alongside him, bobbing and weaving through the jungle obstacle course.

When he felt Muzu’s wings grow heavy, he stayed with the bird as he searched out a roost in a crack of a large boulder. Dead leaves had accumulated in the space, creating a soft, crinkly bed in which the crow could settle down. Sorren bid him a good rest, and gently peeled their two consciousnesses apart.

Sorren came back to himself with a jolt. He’d been so occupied with flying he hadn’t noticed it was getting dark. Fiore was still on his lap, her ears perked up and facing towards the sea. He followed her gaze out to where dark clouds were drifting. From Sorren’s vantage it seemed the wind was driving them in the opposite direction, but they still lent an eerie cast to the world around them, like copper reflections on a black mirror.

Willy returned soon after. He was oddly quiet as he tied Raylene to a palm and unloaded the water. Fiore hopped off Sorren’s lap to twine herself around the man’s legs in greeting. Willy stooped by Sorren and handed him a canteen with a grunt. “It’s good,” he told the halfborn. Sorren took it without question and tipped the canteen back. The fresh spring water was cool and crisp as it rushed down his gullet. He’d forgotten how thirsty he was, and nearly came to the bottom before he stopped.

Willy opened the bag of dried jerky and started to hand it out among them. When he offered a piece to Raylene, the sleipnir turned a look on him like he was crazy. With a shrug, Willy popped it into his own mouth, before settling down to work on firestarting.

Sorren watched as Willy fumbled with the tinderbox he’d recovered from Raylene’s pack. He still hadn’t said anything beyond a cursory greeting. That wasn’t like Willy.

“I sent Muzu to scout,” Sorren started. He wasn’t good at this… conversation starting thing. Especially when it was clear the other party was angry with him. Why couldn’t Willy be the one to extend the olive branch? He was much better at that - Sorren always forgave him.

Willy grunted in response.

“Something wrong?”

The glass smith looked down at the flint in his hand, turning it over and over. “I was just thinking…” he shook his head, refusing to elaborate. He didn’t have to. Sorren thought he already knew. Willy struck the flint and sparks landed on the starter. He piled on kindling, trying to coax the tiny sparks to flame.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you, but it was necessary. We need to work together from now on. It’s too much of a risk.”

“Damn it!” Willy glared down at the kindling where the sparks had puttered out. He struck the flint again, a little too hard this time. “And stop using that foddering Watch Crow voice on me Sorren. I take risks when I bloody well have to, but I don’t work myself to death.” With a growl he ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m always up for a spot of adventure - you know that. What I’m tired of is seeing you run yourself ragged on all this Watch Crow business.”

“We protect Eldemore.”

“A whole lot of protecting ye’ll do if you work yerself to the stubs.” Fiore and Raylene exchanged nervous glances. Willy heaved a sigh. “And I really was looking forward to some personal time with ye.”

“I may’ve… undersold the purpose of the mission,” Sorren admitted. Willy snorted. Why did it feel to Sorren as if he was pulling thorns out of his chest? “But, in my defense I thought it would be a lot easier to take the ship, and a lot less… explosive.”

Something in Willy’s manner seemed to soften towards him. Sorren jumped to seize it. “As vacations go, you can’t say this is all bad. The weather has been pleasant so far.” _The weather? Really? It that what I’m reduced to? Making idle chit chat with Will? Pull it together Sorren._

Willy picked up a stick and twirled it between his fingers, looking thoughtful. “Well, I am getting further along on my pancake quest. And we haven’t done anything like this in ages. I’ve missed it.”

“What. Getting ship-wrecked in the middle of nowhere?”

“Naw, I mean camping out, like this.” Willy struck the flint and sparks flew. He quickly dropped down to blow on them, while Sorren found a more comfortable position nearer the fire. The flames caught and crackled to life. Willy whooped in triumph. “Now if only we had some Marshmallow otterlings. They poop marshmallows you know.”

“For some reason, I’m glad we don’t have any of those actually.”

“We’ll have to make due.” Willy tossed more wood onto the fire, and fished out another piece of jerky. Sorren watched as he skewered it on a stick and held it out over the fire.

It was still warm out, but somehow the heat off the fire felt comfortable. Sorren leaned over it, and felt the warmth flood across his face. The woodsmoke tickled his nose. “This does put me in mind of those days when we would go camping with Felix.”

Willy looked up, confused. “With Felix? I don’t remember ever camping with Felix.”

“That’s because he’d drop us off in the middle of the woods with an empty bucket and say ‘see you back at headquarters’, before disappearing behind a tree."

“Yeah. I always wondered how he did that disappearing act.” Willy took a thoughtful bite of his jerky, which was now smoking. “Mirrors, probably.”

“You used to try and scare Niles and I by making the most unholy noises at night. You used to sound just like an ursa.” Sorren couldn’t help but chuckle at the memory of huddling in the makeshift lean-to, terrified that at any moment a massive bear would come crashing in to rip them all to shreds.

Willy looked bemused. “Oh. Right... I don’t remember that.” He began to laugh. “I do remember I used to put stinging nettles in Niles’ bed roll, so he’d be itching like crazy in the morning.”

“I recall. You did it twice.”

“Three times actually. He caught wise by the third though. That’s when he slept on the ground and rolled over onto that spiky rune dragon nest.”

Sorren shuddered at the memory. “So many quills. In so many places.”

“Say! Remember how we used to share ghost stories in those days? You know, for all we teased him, Niles did weave some pretty good yarns. Kept me up all night that one about the Kracken Cuttlefish…” Willy shivered at the .

“’We’? I think you mean for all _you_ teased him.”

“Pfft. Uh, okay, sure Mr. Didn’t-rig-up-an-elaborate-scheme-to-make-Niles-think-that-rune-guano-would-cure-his-acne.”

“That was merely revenge for him tricking me into his snowbank trap. I was never the instigator in those situations.” The halfborn turned up his nose with a sniff.

“Uh huh. Sure, Sorren.” Willy’s eyes were alight with mischief, and even if he wasn’t forgiven, Sorren felt pretty sure Willy had, at the very least, forgotten his previous anger.

Willy pulled his burnt jerky from the fire, and admired the steaming lump. He held it out to Fiore. “Double-cooked jerky, Fiore?” The sea serval sniffed delicately at it, and hissed.

“How about you Sorren? Have some stick-meat?” He pushed the blackened hunk of what used to be food towards Sorren, and waved it in his face.

“Uh. No thanks. And kindly don’t call it that ever again.” He carefully pushed the stick away from him, eyes watering from the smell.

Willy grinned. “Aw, but I made it special for you.”

“How about you tell us a ghost story, Will?” Sorren interjected. Willy brightened at the prospect and proceeded to scarf the jerky down quickly, crunching happily.

Fiore, perhaps taking shelter from the burned offerings, crawled into Sorren’s lap. The two of them sat attentively, while Willy polished off the rest of his extra crispy jerky.

“Very well! I’ve a story for ye all as care to hear it, and it be fully true.” Fiore sat up, ears perked. Sorren leaned forward. Even Raylene, who’d been eking out a dinner from the surrounding foliage looked up in interest.

Willy’s voice dropped to a storyteller’s cadence, his eyes glazing over as he gazed into the fire’s crackling heart. Behind him, the sun began to sink into the ocean, casting shadows that grew in strength. “It happened in these very seas. Back when pirating was even more cutthroat than it is now. And the cutthroatiest of them all was a man called Thatch Gallows.

“Gallows started out as a simple serval seeker, but he was an ambitious man. ‘e soon entered into deals with the local nobility - agreeing to grant their ships protection in exchange for gold and sailors to fill his ranks. Any who refused to pay his tax or join his crew would be promptly made example of.” Willy’s expression took on a wicked glint. “A child would go missing. A bonded would be found in pieces in the garden. Ships would mysteriously catch fire. He’d blockade ports, leaving the people trapped and starving until they turned on their leaders. There was nothing he wasn’t willing to do to gain control of the entire seaside economy.”

Sorren squeezed Fiore tighter, eager to see where this was headed. The last vestige of sunlight turned the edges of Willy’s hair a bright blood-red, the firelight played across his features, making them feel unfamiliar. His voice sounded far away, as if he were speaking from across time.

“There was one port however, that he could not lay claim to, as it lay under the protection of an Ancient. Time and time again, his depredations were thwarted by the Ancient’s power. Gallow’s was of the opinion that man should see to man, and Ancients keep their long beaky noses out of things.”

Sorren snorted. He had a feeling he knew who Willy might be alluding too. “You’re lucky Muzu’s not here,” he told him.

Willy made a dismissive gesture for the audience to be silence. He was deep into his storytelling now. “Gallows was obsessed with the prospect that this Ancient could be slain, or at least drained of their power. Obviously such works are well beyond the means of mere mortals. So Gallow’s turned to necromancy, looking for clues to a power that might defeat an Ancient, and… he found it.”

A shiver ran up Sorren’s spine, unbidden. Why did it feel as if he were being watched? A log cracked, sending up sparks. Willy continued, his voice growing rough, as the shadows under his brow grew darker.

“In a forbidden tome he’d stolen off a witch, was writ instructions for a ritual that would bestow unto him the most evil object known to man. Forged by the Primals in times long past, it had been said to be destroyed by the very same who’d created it, it’s evil too much for them to contain. What it was, what it did… no one could say. It’s powers were so frightening, so… _evil,_ that no soul as knew it’s true powers was allowed to live. Heroes and villains both had come to ruin over it. They say true evil can never be fully destroyed. Instead, it was split in two, it’s obsidian pieces scattered to the furthest corners of the earth. These, Thatch Gallows set out to gather and bring together.

“For the first piece, Gallows’ drenched in earth in his own blood to sate it. Gave up his very eye for the right to claim it. Plucked it clean out of his skull, With a fork probably. For the second, he ripped out the souls of his crew, and nailed them to…”

“How do you nail a soul?”

“Do ye want to tell the story?”

Sorren crumbled. “No. Go on.”

“Right. All ye need know is, he nailed their souls to the masts of his ship. It took many years, and many battles, before Gallows had won the two pieces. But it’s power had long since been sealed away. And neither eyes, nor souls would unlock it. The only way to awaken it was with a traitorous sacrifice. It would need the blood of a severed bond.” Sorren felt Fiore squirm a little in his lap.

Willy’s voice dropped into a hoarse whisper. Sorren had to lean forward over the crackling fire to hear him. “So, he waited until his beloved serval was fast asleep that night...” He picked up a piece of firewood, very slowly. “And he lifted the two halves…” Taking an end in each hand, Willy raised the stick about his head. “And - _snap!”_ He drove the stick down, breaking it against his knee, a sound so sharp and violent that Sorren, Fiore, and Raylene all jerked back in surprise.

“But instead of his serval, Gallows had altered course at the last minute, striking his beloved; the ship’s quartermaster. In one blow, she crumbled to the ground. A flash of bloody light found the two pieces of obsidian had forged together to create…” he paused, hands spread. A smile played over his lips, knowing he had his small audience hanging on his every word.

“What?” Sorren softly urged him.

“To create - _The Waffle Iron of Doooom_.” Willy waggled his fingers to heighten the effect of his warbling voice.

“A waffle iron.”

“An _evil_ waffle iron. Not that they aren’t all evil already, but this one was the grand-evil-momma of them all.”

The halfborn couldn’t help but smile. “Well, that was… creative. To say the least.”

“Hah! You thought it was over?” Willy bared his teeth wickedly. “The morning following, Gallows woke to find the waffle iron had worked it’s evil magic and held a fresh, steaming waffle. It smelled deliciously, butterously carbfully _evil_. Accordin’ to the texts, eating the waffle would give Gallows the power to defeat the ancient, so he picked up his fork and tucked in. As he ate, however, he noticed something odd. His serval, who normally begged tidbits from him in the morning, was no where to be found.” Fiore pinned her ears back. “Gallows thought little of this, and went on munching away on the golden eggy goodness. The next bite, he bit down on something hard, which he spit out. As he looked at what it was, horror clenched his belly. Do you want to know what it was?”

Sorren decided he would play along. “What?”

“It was a serval tooth!” Willy threw his hands up. Fiore hissed, and Raylene cowered. “He’d been eating his own bonded serval, baked into the waffle!” Sorren swallowed. “Gallows was sickened. The idea of eatin’ his own serval drove him mad. He was never able to eat another piece of food without making himself sick, and slowly starved to death, surrounded by magically multiplying waffles he couldn’t eat.” Willy smiled around the group in triumph. They stared at him in growing horror. “And that’s why one should never eat waffles. _They are devil food._ ”

“Right,” Sorren said, scratching Fiore behind her ear. She still seemed agitated at the story’s twist. “No worries Fiore. Willy already threw out our waffle iron.”

“Damn right I did!” Willy thumped his thigh. “Saved all your souls from that corrupting influence, and ye should thank me for it. Right - your turn Sorren. Tell us a story.”

“Oh no. You know how poorly I tell ghost stories.”

“Eh, good point. You always make them sound like Watch Crow reports.”

“Most of them are. I suppose I could recount that one assassination case I worked. The one where the man’s eyes were found inside his - ”

“I think I’d prefer to sleep tonight, actually.” Willy held up his hands to stave off the story. He stretched, yawning wide. “So, who gets the bed roll first?” He patted the comfortable looking pallet, and a cloud of pink hairs floated up off it, causing Raylene to look a bit abashed. Sorren flushed. Fiore spared him, by answering his question herself. She leapt off Sorren’s lap and curled up in the middle of the bed roll herself.

Sorren shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not very tired; I’ll take first watch if you like.”

Willy nodded. He retrieved the tarp from the boat and threw it on the ground, followed by himself on top. “Promise not to turn me into waffles while I sleep tonight Sorren?”

Sorren grinned. “I make no such promises.”


	6. In Which Things are Lost and Others Regained

“Alright Raylene. Our lives - and more importantly, our pancakes - rely on you, girl.” The sleipnir tried to turn away, but Willy gently lifted the equine’s chin to meet those soft liquid eyes. “Ray - sweetheart, darlin’, apple of my eye -” the ears perked at the mention of apples, “ye want to have some pancakes, aye?” Willy made the sleipnir’s head nod up and down. The Tangled Blossom blinked at him. “You want Sorren to make us some pancakes, don’t ye?” He made the sleipnir nod again.

Sorren stood at a distance, watching this exchange while he cleaned and re-bandaged his hands. He was feeling refreshed today, having slept surprising well last night. He owed that to Willy, who had let the halfborn sleep an extra hour before waking him for his last stint at watch. Willy didn’t seem the least effected by the loss of sleep. He remained as energized as usual as he had pantomimed dying of hunger after they split the last of the jerky.

Willy’s anger with him seemed to have evaporated in the morning mist. Still, Sorren couldn’t shake the sense that something felt strained in the air between them that morning. Perhaps it was just him. The candidness they had didn’t feel to come quite as easily as normal. He tried to put on a good face hoping Willy wouldn’t notice.

“Alright. Now… Milk!” Willy threw up his hands. With a snort the big head dropped and began cropping the grass. Willy’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Sorren, how do you convince a sleipnir to give up its milk?”

Sorren took a deep breath. This could take half the day. As he prepared to launch into a biology lesson, he felt a niggling at his attention. The blood bond between him and Muzu thrummed, the crow trying to alert him to something. The crow was bursting with news of some sort.

Sorren excused himself, and closed his eyes, pulling himself along his bond with Muzu. The crow excitedly mingled his consciousness with the halfborn. Sorren opened Muzu’s eyes and suddenly a long swathe of beach stretched out far below him. Beyond that lay the jungle. Sorren could see water beneath him, and thought at first that Muzu was flying over the sea. Then the bird turned his head and Sorren saw a familiar span of wood and line. _A ship!_

Muzu was perched on the crow’s nest of a ship, anchored offshore. Sorren’s heart leapt. Perhaps they weren’t in as dire straits as he had at first thought.

Muzu craned his head, and a person came into view. It was a sailor, judging by the colorful striped clothing they wore. They held a spyglass and were sweeping it across the horizon. Sorren had had watch in the nest more than enough times in the past to recognize the pattern.

Sorren witnessed as Muzu carefully sidled up the sailor, wondering what the crow intended to show him. At the moment all he could see was the large swath that made up the person’s trouser leg. It was then he noticed the hank of bread and cheese in the sailor’s other hand. Muzu had already seen it though. The crow quickly snagged the cheese without the sailor’s noticing and scarfed it down. _You rotten thief._ Sorren supposed some things never changed.

Muzu burped and hopped around to the other side of the crow’s nest, out of range of the sailor. He bent his head and studied the deck below, giving Sorren a look at just who this ship belonged to. Sorren groaned when he saw the black clad figures patrolling up and down the quarterdeck. There was no mistaking the strut and polish of the Navy, like black peacock runes, with their following of striped high-stepping sailors. Sorren would’ve much preferred to do without those fusspots, who would likely demand compensation for the ‘kindness’ of their taking on castaways. Penny-pinching muckers. Judging by the banner that flew beneath the Northern Kingdom’s ensign, they were not out of his and Willy’s home port of Silverport either, which would’ve made dealing with them at least a bit more cordial. Willy knew practically every ship’s captain that docked in Silverport, and those he didn’t, certainly knew him. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Sorren’s eyes snapped open, finding himself back with Willy and Fiore. “There’s a ship here.”

“A ship? They sent a ship for us already? Okay, I take back every bad thing I said about Thanatos’ weird, seemingly time warping abilities. Freaky as they are.”

“It’s not the Watch Crows,” Sorren said. “It’s the navy.”

The redhead looked taken aback. “Who sent those knobs?”

“Can’t say, but I think we just found out who Raylene belongs to.”

Willy wrapped his arms around the sleipnir’s neck.

“Will…”

“Aww, do we have to go after them?” Willy stuck out his lower lip, getting it to tremble slightly. It was no easy feat saying no to a face like that. Luckily Sorren had a lot of practice.

“I guess that depends. Do you want to get off this island or not?”

“Well…”

Sorren raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s just been nice - sandy beaches, sleeping under the stars, roasting jerky, defeating giant snakes -”

“Giant what?”

“I’m just sayin’ - what’s the rush? I’m getting closer to uncovering all the pancake ingredients. We have plenty of water, and a goodly fire. We have the whole damn island to explore. Aw, think of what we might find Sorren!” Fiore mewed her agreement.

“You’re just saying all this because you want to keep Raylene.”

Willy smushed his face against the sleipnir’s. “She don’t want to go back Sorren! She wants to stay with us, right girl?” Raylene said nothing.

“What are you going to feed it?” Sorren threw out a hand, taking in the scene around them. “Sand and rocks?”

“Sarcasm does not suit ye, Sorren.” The halfborn sniffed. Willy pressed on. “Nay. We’ll go inland. We’ll find food and water. We’ll erect a treehouse, and live amid the canopy. We’ll learn the ways of the jungle creatures and wrestle our food into submission, like our ancestors did.”

“I thought your ancestors were fish mongers.”

“So we’ll wrestle fish!”

“And how do expect we’ll make pancakes when the crate runs out?”

“…”

“..?”

“Let’s find ourselves a ship!” Willy picked up the reins and began leading Raylene down the beach, whistling gaily.

“Um, Willy. The ship would be that way.” Sorren pointed in the opposite direction.

“Course, it is. I was just checking.”

Sorren resisted the urge to sigh. Willy helped him start to break camp, packing what supplies they could into Raylene’s packs. Willy started tying a bit of vine around the crate of pancake mix before Sorren stopped him.

“We can’t bring that thing with us, Will!”

“Well, we can’t very well leave it here. Raylene’s got this.” Raylene looked at the crate with no small amount of trepidation. The sleipnir looked surprisingly small next to it.

“We’ll come back for it. C’mon, we need to get moving while there’s still light.” A soft kissy sound made Sorren flinch. “Look, don’t get snippy with me.”

“What?”

“Stop making those noises with your mouth, and let’s go.”

Willy looked at Fiore. Fiore looked at Willy. They both looked at Sorren who whirled on them just as another wet sucking noise was heard. “That… wasn’t you?”

“Raylene?” Willy asked the sleipnir. The Tangled Blossom nickered in puzzlement.

Sorren looked around. His fingers twitched, longing for a sword. Willy dropped into a crouch, eyes darting left and right expecting an attack.

As Sorren scanned his eye fell on the crate, and he had to laugh. There was a tiny bright red cuttlefish stuck on the wooden crate. As Sorren watched it pulled up two of it’s tiny tentacles with a soft sucking sound and waved them.

Willy followed Sorren’s gaze and jumped. He bolted behind the halfborn. “No! Not again!”

“It’s just a wee baby cuttlefish,” Sorren chided, reaching out with a finger to stroke the slimy mantle. The cuttlefish stared up at him with bright, luminous eyes. “It seems to like pancakes almost as much as you.”

“Well, it can’t have them,” Willy growled. He began looking around frantically. Whatever he was looking for was evidently not to be found. He stepped forward and gently began to pry the little cuttlefish off the crate. “C’mon now, little sea-flapper. Get off wit’ ye.”

It took some doing before Willy was finally able to wrest the tiny creature off the crate. It wrapped it’s tentacles lovingly around his fingers, and looked up. “Oh no ye don’t. I’ve fallen fer that look before, and I’ll not do it again.” He tried to pull it off him, but it only reattached itself to the other hand. Its eyes seemed to shine with glee at this new game. “ _Sorren. Help._ ” It was the plea of a desperate man, and Sorren could not deny him.

It took several minutes of coaxing and pleading with the baby cuttlefish. Every time they extracted one limb, another would wrap around some other digit, holding on with surprising strength. It took all their concentration to hold off it’s ensnaring grip. Sorren didn’t notice the bright red blobs rolling in with the tide, the multitude of bright eyes peering up over the rocks, or the increasing _suck-slap_ of suckers as they moved through the sand.

When he felt something wet at his pant leg he looking down. He jumped back in alarm, smacking against Willy. “Uh… Will?” Willy looked up, and the color drained from his face.

The beach was covered in cuttlefish. Every inch of sand had vanished beneath hundreds - no, thousands of squirming bodies. A sea of glittering eyes shined up like a thousand moons. Cuttlefish dragged themselves forward on their tentacles. They climbed over the rocks with surprising speed, clearly intent on something. Already the forerunners of the mass were upon them.

“They’ve come for me pancakes!” Willy shouted. He leapt over several of the squishy things. Slamming his shoulder into the crate, he yelled for Sorren. “Sorren! Help me pull!”

Sorren looked down at the rope, and at his bandaged hands.“Can you think with anything other than your stomach? You’re like a drake with a pot of gold. ”

“Look!” Willy grunted as the crate lurched forward half an inch. “I know this don’t mean very much to you,-” huff, “-but I went to a lot of trouble dragging this particular pot o’ gold” - uff, “-through a host of undead trying to part my head from me neck. So it’s coming with us!” Willy’s feet slid in the slime-slickened sand, as the mass of cuttlefish began to creep up over him. Suckers reached up to tug at his boots and trouser leg. Several began climbing up him tentacle-over-tentacle.

Sorren brushed off several cuttlefish off the crate, but a dozen more came over top of it, wiggling their tiny tentacles. “Ow!” He drew back at their grasping suckers - what normally felt sloppy kisses had taken on a fair amount of bite. “Willy - we have to leave it!”

“They’ll never take my pancakes, alive!” Sorren looked to see a cuttlefish peeking out from Willy’s beard.

Raylene whinnied in panic, prancing in place to avoid stepping on any cuttlefish. The slepnir was quickly being driven back towards the cliffs by the wave of cuttlefish. Fiore, on the saddle, hissed and swiped in warning. The cuttlefish paid no mind, but kept on coming.

A pinch at his leg told Sorren that the cuttlefish had surrounded them. They were pouring out around the crate, seeking anything they could get a hold of. It just so happened those things were Sorren and Willy. So many of them clustered around the crate, it couldn’t be budged.

Willy slumped against the crate, utterly defeated. “I knew it would come to this someday. Go on Sorren. Leave me here. I’ll go down with my pancakes.”

Sorren looked at his friend for a long time. In his eyes he could see a broken man - a shadow of his former vibrancy, but some determination remained, a poignant, resigned acceptance of a promise. To pancakes.

“Alright then.” Sorren turned and fled towards the animals.

“Hey!” Willy cried sitting up, and shedding several cuttlefish. “Ye weren’t suppose to actually _leave_ me!”

“Let’s go Will! Leave the pancakes to the cuttlefish, before you’re overrun!”

“Like blazes I will.” But when Willy looked behind him, his resolve crumbled. The cuttlefish mass was growing, as more and more of the things crawled up out of the ocean. The ground quivered like jelly, and the mass of them came on fast and strong - a chest-high surge of shining eyes and flailing tentacles.

Willy dove out of the way just as the bulk of it hit the crate. There was a loud resounding _crack_ , but miracle of miracles - the crate didn’t shatter into a thousand pieces. It was borne on the wave of cuttles, bobbing along like a merry rowboat.

Willy fled to Sorren and Raylene. “I’m glad you at last came to your senses,” Sorren sniffed. “Let’s get out of here before your stomach puts any more of our lives in danger.”

Willy snorted. The group of them retreated up the beach and into the jungle proper. Most of the cuttlefish army ran up against the rocks and couldn’t follow, though a few stragglers chased after them. They quickly outpaced them, jogging as fast as they could through the dense underbrush. The trees and brush meant the cuttlefish could not follow. At last Sorren hauled on Raylene’s reins and dragged the party to a stop. The halfborn flopped against a rock. His head was pounding from thirst and heat. Shakily he reached for the canteen and threw back a large mouthful.

Willy stroked Raylene’s neck and whispered words of praise. He drew out his own canteen, and much to Raylene’s interest, poured it’s contents out into the saddlebags. The slepinir’s nostrils flared. When the equine looked at him, the red head held a finger to his lips and winked. Raylene desperately wished to not be involved in these shenanigans ant longer, but such was not Fate’s way.

Patting the sleipnr’s shoulder Willy took command. “Once ye’ve caught yer wind, Sorren, let’s be off. I’ll show ye the spring I found.”

“You’re not… angry?”

Willy stroked Raylene’s soft nose. “Hungry, aye? Sore? Definitely. But angry?” He shook his head.

“Yes. I just thought… Willy.” Sorren pushed himself off the rock and looked the man in the eye. Or tried to. Willy seemed preoccupied with pulling seaweed out of his beard. “I am sorry about the pancakes.”

“O-oh?”

"I'm hungry too. I promise we'll go back for the crate - first chance we get."

Willy beamed at him. "I'd like that. I knew I loved ye fer a reason."

Sorren snorted. "Is that reason because I can cook?"

"Nay, 'course not. But I will say it sure doesn't spoil the pot."

Willy smiled, and Sorren found it impossible to resist smiling back. “You know, for a moment, I thought you were actually going to choose the pancakes over me.” He chuckled.

“Never!” Willy looked up at him now, eyes wide. “Ye didn’t really think that, did you Sorren?”

“No. But I was worried you might do something foolish and get yourself hurt.”

“Ye don’t have to worry about me.” Willy looked down at the ground. He scuffed some dirt over his shoe. Then seeming to come to a conclusion, he gestured to Raylene. “Sorren, I -”

The soft rumbled of thunder interrupted Willy. The first few drops of rain soon vanished under sheets of water that poured from the heavens above. The two castaways drew closer together as the wind lashed the trees, and the jungle screamed in defiance. Rune dragons darted past, and jackalopes sprang up underfoot to retreat to the deeper parts of the jungle for shelter. The group ran on, with no room for further discussion. They sought shelter beneath an enormous fern leaf. Sorren and Willy stared out at the storm. Words were drowned in the heavy beat of rain, so they offered none, as the rain washed away all signs of their having passed this way.


	7. In Which Our Henpecked Heroes Wreck Home

The storm blew itself out as quickly as it had come. Sorren peered out from under the fern they were sheltered under. The scent of wet loam permeated the forest, as shafts of sunlight broke the cloud cover and shimmered down. Droplets off the leaves caught the light and turned it green.

Willy coaxed Raylene out from under the fern. The slepinir looked around nervously, obvious on alert for any more slimy crawlers to come out of the ground.

Fiore mewed softly, and pointed her nose in a direction. “Fiore wants us to head this way,” Willy announced. Sorren nodded, and they started off.

Willy whooped when they relocated the spring, as fresh and clean as it was yesterday. He lead Raylene straight to up to it. Sorren approached and held the tin cup under the falls. He brought the water to his lips. It was bitterly cold, and crisp, a shot like frigid lightening went straight to his stomach, waking up every nerve. The tension in his shoulders melted; he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying it before then.

Willy held Raylene’s snout under the small waterfall to encourage the sleipnir to drink. “See that Raylene? Mayhaps ‘twill inspire you. Think this, but with milk.”

Sorren straightened, and startled at the sight of the giant stone serpent that lay just outside the glade. He stared at it for a solid minute while Willy fussed over Raylene. He walked around the snake, musing to himself.

At that moment, Willy’s head came up sharply. “Hear that?”

At first Sorren didn’t think Willy was talking to him. _Mmrrow!_ Fiore confirmed. Sorren cocked his head and listened. A harsh _ku-ke-loo-ku-ke-loo!_ Could be heard from behind them.

Willy rushed towards the sound. “Will!” Sorren cried. But he’d already vanished into the foliage.

“C’mon Sorren! I think I know what it is!” Sorren chased after him, Fiore and Raylene bringing up the rear of their odd little parade. _I wish he didn’t have to rush off at every little sound._

Sorren emerged into a clearing and spied Willy craning his head upwards, looking up at a large rock formation. Sorren gave him a questioning look. With a grin as wide as a boulevard, Willy pointed up at the rock face. The other followed his gesture, and saw, of all things, a chicken griffin tending a nest on a ledge in the rock face.

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“Eggs, Sorren! _Eggs!_ ” Willy was practically dancing with joy. “The next pancake ingredient!”

Sorren could hardly believe it. He narrowed his eyes at Willy, convinced that some sort of magic was at play. Or maybe just some ridiculous luck. The halfborn shrugged. “Well, I am hungry…” They were clean out of jerky, and who knew how long until they found the ship.

Willy’s smile could’ve put the sun itself to shame with it’s brightness. “Think you can distract the griffin Sorren? Birds of a feather, and all that. Get ‘er off the nest? Then Fiore can snoop in and knock those eggs into my hat.” Willy pulled his hat off to demonstrate. Being a rather large hat, it seemed the perfect device for catching eggs. The plan seemed solid. Sorren nodded approval.

Willy, Fiore on his shoulder, dissolved into the underbrush, intent to circle back around the rock face. Sorren took Raylene’s reins and walked in the opposite direction, coming within sight of the nesting griffin. The large animal glanced at the half-born and the sleipnir, creatures she most likely had never seen in her life. Her warm brown eyes tracked their movements like a hawk. She was a large, fluffy brown creature; large, as her breed went, a little bigger than Raylene.

Sorren wrapped the reins around a tree trunk, trying to figure an approach to distracting the griffin. “Willy!” he called out. “Are you in position?” The sound of loud rustling came from behind the rock face, followed by a short string of curses. The halfborn crossed his arms as he waited, studying his fingernails. Hmm - he needed to clean these things more often.

“Ready for boarding action, Sorren _sir_! The sea serval has been deployed!” A moment later a bright splash of fuchsia fur sauntered into view above the griffin. The chicken griffin was still staring at Sorren like he’d a sudden second head sprout from his neck.

“Excellent.”

Back home, chicken griffins were quite even-tempered things, but he had no idea what to expect of one gone feral. Even the more tame griffins could be dangerous if improperly handled. The image of placid maternity concealed what Sorren knew were wicked curved talons, and powerful hind paws. Her hooked beak could’ve easily plucked out an eye, or crushed a finger, and those claws were as deadly as any liger’s.

How to go about this? Sorren had never had to lure a griffin off it’s nest. Normally he would probably try to tempt her with food, or a plaything, but he had neither of those.

He picked up a stick, and began advancing on the griffin.“Sorry ‘bout this girl,” Sorren said, and flung the stick at the griffin. It spun through the air like a thrown dagger, and clattered against the rock. The creature’s feathers rose at the sound, but she was otherwise unfazed. Well. Operation Stick had failed. The halfborn paced back and forth, deciding on his next course of action in dissuading the female from her nest.

Things were happening too slowly for Willy’s liking. He’d been sitting there for - what? A minute? Two? What was Sorren up to? He had to find out. He moved around the rock in time to see Sorren charge the griffin with a blood-curdling battle cry. The griffin startled. With a ruffle of feathers she hissed loudly, striking out with a beak. Sorren leapt back to avoid injury.

“These creatures just have no fear of us.”

Willy clucked his tongue. “Sorren, Sorren, Sorren. You never did have a way with the lassies. That’s no way to distract a chicken griffin.”

Sorren and Raylene exchanged glances. Sorren raised an eyebrow at Willy. “Oh no? And I suppose you’d know better?”

“They don’t call me Winsome Willy for nothing.”

“Nothing indeed, as I don’t recall hearing anyone call you that.”

“It was before I met you. Back in my rovin’ days. I used to set their panters all aflutter.”

“Ah. In that case, by all means, illuminate us.” Sorren bowed to Willy’s superior winsomeness.

The glass smith shooed him, and took position center stage. With an elegant flourish, Willy puffed out his chest, and arranged the skirts of his coat behind him. He reached up to smooth the plume in his hat. He pulled himself up to his full height, striking an impressive figure. The griffin tilted her head, eyes fixed on the display. Slowly, Willy raised his hands to cup his mouth, savoring his audience’s captivation. Then he belted out: “ _ku-KEE-kuk-KEE-LOOO! ku-KEE-kuk-KEE-LOOO!”_

_Bwak?_ The griffin leapt to her feet, suddenly alert. A low appreciative chuckling started in her throat, as Willy began to flounce around and scratch at the ground.

Sorren had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at his companion flapping his arms around like a chicken griffin. It was marvelous, in it’s own fashion. “You just need to channel your inner bird, Sorren.”

“Oh, I think it’s channeled Will. I’m feeling quite the urge to feather a nest of my own.”

Willy crowed again. This was too much for the lady griffin’s heart. With a harsh _ba-gak!_ the griffin pounced onto the ground, leaving the nest bare. In her leaving were revealed three light brown eggs, as round and glowing as any moon.

Willy finished his dance by whipping off his hat in a grand bow. Sorren gave a polite couple of claps, only partially meant to be sarcastic. “Thank you - and now, my bonnie chickie, for the main entertainment.” Willy leaned over to Sorren, and in a whisper that couldn’t really be called a whisper by anyone other than Willy, said, “Sorren - you’re on!”

Willy scampered around behind the griffin, leaving Sorren in the eyesight of the lady griffin. She waited expectantly, staring down the halfborn with those large, warm eyes. “Uh… Willy, what do I do?” The only distractions Sorren could think of all involved destruction, and often violence. He wasn’t one for dancing distractions; Willy should know this.

“Flirt with her.”

“ _Wha-_? With a griffin? You know I don’t - _flirt_.” That very word felt like a rough brush on his tongue.

“You’re a pretty bird; she’s a pretty bird. Talk crackers - I don’t know!”

“Crackers?” The griffin’s ear tufts twitched, her bright eyes studying Sorren intently. Her massive head thrust forwards to snuffle at his shirt. The griffin was enormous up close - far bigger than most chicken griffins Sorren had seen. Visions of her sharp beak ripping out his kidneys floated in his mind’s eye. He shook himself. _It’s just an overlarge version of Muzu. With two-inch claws._

“I’m sorry, uh… Miss. I don’t have any crackers.” His mind raced. He could count on one hand the times he had tried flirting. Willy usually handled that sort of thing. How did Willy flirt? “Uh… you’re a very pretty bird.” The griffin actually squeaked in delight, and ruffled her feathers, prettily. Huh. If he didn’t know better he would’ve said the bird actually blushed. Who would’ve thought that actually would work?

While Sorren tried to cozy up to the she-griffin, Willy, hat in hand, took up position under the rock ledge. Fiore put her nose under the first egg and gave it a nudge. The brown orb rolled forward. Craning his neck, Willy could see it teetering on the edge of the ledge, rising into sight like a pancake moon over a sky of blueberry syrup.

Willy hopped about, trying to line up his hat with the egg before it dropped. Fiore gave the egg a final push; it tumbled forward towards the waiting hat.

“ _Yeeesss_!”

A booming _ku-ke-loo-ku-ke-loo!_ made Willy jump. The egg hit his shoulder with an explosive _splat._ Yolk flew everywhere. The weight of the blow made Willy stagger. “Aw, by all Oblivion’s twinkling toes - I just got the basilisk venom outta this coat!” Or at least most of it.

Another round of _ku-ke-loo-ku-ke-loo!_ made Willy look around. And there, coming over a rise was a huge speckled rooster griffin, with a wattle resplendent enough to rival even Willy’s flaming beard.

Papa rooster’s attention was not on Willy however, but on Sorren. He fluffed up his feathers so that it looked like he’d swallowed several balloon. It was quite clear he was under the impression that he had just caught his lady love in the amorous attentions of a rival lover, and was about to lay down the law of the jungle.

Said lover was currently being pinned to a tree by the vigorous nuzzles of a lovestruck lady-griffin. This did not go unnoticed by Willy, who forgot about the eggs momentarily. Both rooster and glass smith eyed the situation. Sorren tried to push the amorous griffin away. “Shoo! Get off!”

Willy scowled. “Ah - Sorren. I think ye worked a little too much charm, there. Someone’s been getting more practice than he’s let on -” The rooster crowed.

Sorren shoved the griffin’s beak aside with a growl. “Willy! Please. I’m already at odds with one jealous cock - I don’t need another!”

The sailor pursed his lips and considered this. “Well, there’s no need to be rude.”

The rooster griffin roared at Sorren, stomping towards this new rival. The halfborn struggled to push the besotted hen off of him, who was engaged in grooming him.

“This is not what it looks like,” Sorren told the rooster. The male griffin looked skeptical. He shoved his mate aside, and scratched the ground, tossing his shaggy head in challenge. “I’m not interested in your lovely hen here. Willy - tell him I’m not interested.”

“I dunno Sorren. Looked pretty convincing to me.” The rooster ba-gawked in agreement. The hen retreated to the sidelines with Willy and Raylene where she plopped herself down to watch the action, trembling and cooing with excitement. Willy crossed his arms and chuckled at her. “Right wagtail with the boys, aren’t ya?”

“I am _not_ getting involved in a lover’s quarrel between two overstuffed pillows,” Sorren snipped. He spat out a mouthful of griffin feathers as he spoke. The rooster swayed, kicking up dust, shaking his wattles in challenge. With an angry crow, he lunged at Sorren, claws extended. The halfborn’s instincts took over. He dove to the leaf litter, narrowly missing the sharp talons, and rolled back to his feet. He spun around to face the rooster, who bounced off the tree. The beast twisted and landed gracefully to face Sorren.

The griffin hen watched the two, puffing up her feathers so much she looked more like a chillawing than a griffin. She was vibrating with excitement. The rooster griffin roared and charged at Sorren again, who flipped away.

Willy cheered. “Get ‘im, Sorren! Give ‘im what for. Wait - do I want you to win or lose?”

“You’ll be the one losing if you don’t _help me_!” The rooster griffin took another swipe at the halfborn. The beast shook it’s head, and chased after him.

“Alright, keep your feathers on, Sorren. I just gotta grab one thing, and than we can go. Ye’re doing great by the by - hang in there.” Willy carefully backed away from the audience that had gathered to watch the chaos, ignoring Sorren’s desperate cry of “ _Willy!”_. The halfborn had dealt with much more dangerous situations than this - he was fine.

The redhead turned to wave his hat, signaling Fiore. He hurried to the rock face and held his hat out to catch the next egg. Fiore began rolling the next egg towards the edge to Willy. “That’s it! Pancakes - here we come!”

At that moment, Sorren lunged aside from another charge. The rooster griffin careened into Willy, knocking him to the ground. The egg tumbled and splattered all over the griffin’s head. With a roar of rage, it reared back, beating it’s wings.

The speckled rooster lashed around, blinded by the yolk. The tail hit Sorren as he ran, sending him flying towards the hen. She cooed alluringly, and Sorren quickly backpedaled.

“ _Nooo_ ,” Willy groaned, as he saw his chances of pancakes soak away into the ground. There was only one egg left. He picked himself up off the ground. Behind him, the mad rooster was running around, crowing and smashing into the foliage as he chased after Sorren. The hen was still riveted on the action - Willy had never quite seen a griffin swoon, but he thought he might soon.

He stood up, watching as Sorren dodged the claws with supreme agility, spinning, hopping, using the trees and rocks to thwart his opponent. It was like watching a dancer outrun a hurricane. Sorren grabbed a vine and threw it around the griffin’s foot, catching it. The rooster crowed in rage, kicking up his back feet in anger. He ripped through the vine after a moment’s struggle, but it was enough time for Sorren to scramble up a tree, where he paused, catching his breath.

“No. Shoo! Go back to your mate,” Sorren scolded the big griffin. It stretched up to it’s full height, digging it’s claws into the bark. Behind them the she-griffin hissed in displeasure. The rooster fell back and started hopping straight up and down like a lustful widowbird. Something about his attitude seemed to be daring Sorren to ‘come down and fight, man’, but the halfborn was quite content sitting where he was.

While he held their attention, Fiore carefully maneuvered the last egg into position, peeking over the edge to check on Willy’s location. The man had his hat out and was nimbly shuffling along the rock face, ready to lunge in either direction. He wouldn’t miss this one.

Fiore gave the egg the tiniest of nudges, as if she were blessing it with a velvet paw. It rolled off the edge and turned in the open air, shining like a tumbling diamond in Willy’s eyes. Except it was far more precious than any diamond - it was the next item of his quest.

With two trembling hands, he lifted his hat and jerked to the left. The world slowed. Everything come into crystal clear focus. The heavens opened up and choirs of angel rune drakes lifted their heads in song. With a soft thud, the egg landed in his hat. Full, round, and perfectly intact.

Willy raised the heavy hat overhead in triumph. “Sorren!” he called out joyfully. “I got it!”

Two griffin heads whipped around to fix on him. “Oh shi-”

Suddenly two very angry, very large griffins were barreling straight towards him.

Willy didn’t stop to ask ‘how d’ye’do’. He bolted around the back of the rock. The griffins followed. They chased him round their rocky abode, once, twice, thrice. Sorren watched them, as they looped around like figures chasing around a clock. He had to stop looking when he got dizzy. Quicky he descended from the tree, and rushed to Raylene. The nervous sleipnir was stamping in annoyance, champing at the bit to be gone. “Easy there.” Sorren ran a soothing hand along the pink-furred neck. He quickly untied the reins.

“Sorren! Catch!” Sorren turned around just in time to see the egg flying towards him. By instinct he leapt forward and snatched it, bringing it close to his chest. He opened one of the saddlebags and had to do a double take at the mounds of… was that pancake mix? _Willy…_

_I’ll deal with this later._ Quickly Sorren shoveled out two handfuls with his bandaged hands, and secured the precious prize inside the remaining mix. He wanted to heave countless sighs over Willy’s pancake purveyance, but he couldn’t muster the energy. At least it should provide a soft cushion for the egg.

“C’mon Will!” Sorren vaulted onto Raylene’s back. Willy made a running leap into the saddle, landing in front of Sorren. Fiore leapt from the rockface to land on the Tangled Blossom’s rump, finding purchase with her claws. The sleipnir squealed in pain and kicked off. The two griffins chased after them. Their bulky bodies had more trouble than the lithe little sleipnir in the dense forest.

Raylene set a breakneck pace. Sorren could barely hold on with his damaged hands. “Where are you taking us?” Sorren yelled, clutching at the other man’s back. “Will! Slow down!”

Willy yanked on the reins. A toss of the head and Raylene ripped them from his hands. They flopped uselessly over the sleipnir’s face.

“Uh oh.”

“Uh oh?”

“I lost the rudders on this thing.”

Raylene showed no sign of slowing. It was all Willy could do to hold onto the mane as the sleipnir ran wild; twisting around tree trunks, leaping across logs. There was no rhyme or reason to the wild path - the only thing in Raylene’s mind was alarm bells screaming _‘Run!’_

The riders ducked and dodged tree limbs, vines lashed their faces. “Hold on!” But Sorren couldn’t hold on. He felt himself slipping. Raylene jumped a log, and Sorren found himself unprepared. He felt himself leave the sleipnir’s back, tumbling through the air. He hit the ground with a thud.

Freed of the extra weight, Raylene plunged forward even faster. Nostrils trumpeting, reins flapping, the group tore a swath through the jungle. Fiore yowled at Willy, but the man could neither control nor stop the wild sleipnir. All he could do was tug uselessly on the cropped mane as the equine weaved through the trees, heedless of the rider and serval on it’s back. Rune dragons screeched at their passing, rising up underfoot in panicked flight.

“Whoa! _Whooaa!_ ” Willy tried yelling at the sleipnir, but that only seemed to egg on this wild ride. The pink neck bobbed and plunged beneath his hands. Willy clung to it for dear life. A distant nicker made Raylene shiver. A flash of purple and white shot past Willy’s eyes. A concordant note blasted the air.

As quickly as it had begun Raylene plowed to a stop. Hooves slammed into dirt, and went skidding. The sudden jerk sent Willy tumbling over the sleipnir’s head. He landed in the dirt with a thud.

“Ah - _damn it_ \- this always happened with the other Raylene too.” Willy rubbed his hip and groaned.

He stopped, suddenly realizing that he wasn’t alone. In fact, he was surrounded. A gang of surly looking ruffians stood above him, bristling with sharp pointy objects, and an assortment of deadly looking musical instruments. Striped shirts, weathered faces, and motley assortments immediately pinned them as sailors. Their colorful clothing was only dulled by the presence of the sleipnir, a large group in purples, pinks and yellows. They nickered a greeting to Raylene. Raylene, relived of duty, trotted up to a fellow Tangled Blossom, and shared a polite sniff.

Polite sniffs did not seem to be what the group of sailors had in mind for the hapless glass smith who had fallen into their midst. Willy’s eyes darted around the group, as they moved to close him off from any escape. The sailors eyed him warily, fingering their weapons, and baring snaggle-toothed grins. They bristled like a bunch of alley servals, scarping for a fight. Willy tried his most winning smile out on them.

“Ah…ahoy?”


	8. In Which There Is Great Ado

Willy looked around at the group of cutthroat salts. “So… Raylene, care to introduce yer friends?” The sleipnir nickered.

“What’s going on here?” A man pushed himself past two of the pack horses, a small, dark blue dire wolf at his heels. He was built like a half-grown slepnir, all limbs. Willy suspected with a well timed sneeze he could blow him over. “Who are you?” He glared between Raylene and Willy. Willy opened his mouth. “Never mind - I know already! You are a thief. That sleipnir is Naval property. What are you doing with it in the middle of this Ancientless place?”

Willy bristled at the accusation. “You know, where I come from, accusin’ a man of theft before ye’ve introduced yerself is considered impolite.” The man looking down his nose at him resembled more a puffed-up turnspit salesman than a sailor, though he obviously belonged to this ragtag group. His cheeks were as downy as a babe’s, yet to be tempered by the sea. It was a face as narrow and bony as Raylene’s - the sleipnir, not the madam - and about as intimidating, which was to say not at all. His dusty brown eyes squinted at Willy as if he were a cockroach he’d just fished out of his bouillabaisse.

Willy slowly stood, dusting off his coat, which, coupled with the egg yolk, probably looked three-ways to Oblivion by now. He gave up. He did hope Sorren could work some of that domestic magic and clean up the poor thing when they got home. Besides, this man didn’t look much better, standing in naught but his shirtsleeves, and a pair of hand-me-down britches.

“I need yer help. See, my partner and me - we were stranded on this island after this floating soap factory blew sky high, but not before I was able to rescue all this golden goodness from the clutches of this bone-rattler. We were attacked by a tentacled legion. We had to beat feet fer it, and leave it behind. Then we was caught in a marriage spat between these chickens, while we were looking fer breakfast, right? And Raylene started bucking like a spring jackalope, and carried me and Fiore off - a lot like the last Raylene I knew, actually. But, see we lost -”

“Enough!” The man barked. “I really could not care less about your marriage problems, or your chickens...or your… did you say gold?”

The crew stirred at that last word. Several hungry gazes turned on Willy, glittering with that fearsome glitter sailor’s often got at the mention of a prize. He could sense the spit pooling in their mouths as they stared at him. They were looking at him like… well, like  _he_ was a stack of pancakes.

But the man addressing him had no interest in pancakes, it seemed. The long-faced gentleman narrowed his eyes at Willy. “You realize you’re interrupting a very,  _very_ important, very time-sensitive mission.”

A loud slurping sound made the man and Willy look to the side where a sailor was sipping a coconut through a very noisy straw. At the sight of the tiny umbrella in the coconut, Willy stifled a whimper.

“ _Very_ important!” The man shoved the thirsty sailor behind the crowd of sleipnir, out of Willy’s sight. The dire wolf sat down and gave a huff.

Willy glances around. “Really. ‘Cause from where I’m standing, looks to me like you lot were rehearsing some loud, and possibly bawdy show tunes.”

A handful of the sailors quietly stowed their pennywhistles and ukuleles behind their backs.

“Does this mean the musical number’s off?”

Long-Face rolled his eyes in an appeal to the Sky Ancient. “I said ‘no musical numbers’, didn’t I, Vivian? Not after the last time.” The sailor named Vivian looked abashed.

Willy quickly reassessed this man in the shirtsleeves. “Ah, you’re the lead man, I’ll be taking it.” Nobody who wasn’t would have the stones to push around sailors so easily, especially not one that looked like Vivian. Vivian looked like she would’ve broken any ordinary man who got between her and her show tunes.

“Aye.” The man readjusted the cuff on one sleeve, trying, and failing to appear unaffected. “And you would be?” His voice screamed superiority complex.

Willy swept off his hat in a bow that made his hip twinge. “Glass smith, by trade. Adventurer by pleasure. Name of Wilhelm Amadeus the Third. And thief I may be, but only of pastries, pens, and the odd heart.”  _Nowadays, at least,_ Willy added this last silently.

“If that’s true, why do have one of our sleipnir?”

“Well, she just took to me. Followed me home. In fact, how do I know the beast is even yours?” Willy crossed his arms, and met the man’s suspicious glare with one of his own. The lanky stranger cut his eyes over to the sleipnir in question, who was engaged in nuzzling noses with one of the others of its breed. The two of them were making cow eyes at one another like two turtledove runes. They really did look a match, and obviously knew one another. “That proves nothing.”

The man stepped closer to the sleipnir, and pointed to the brand on the animal’s flank - a shield with three letters arrayed around it, that marked it as Naval property. “I…uh…”

“I can’t help but wonder what brings this sorry-looking buzzard,” the man reached out to tweak at the black crow feather in Willy’s hat, “circling around here.”

No one touched Willy’s hat. No one aside from Fiore that was. Willy reacted on instinct. His hand shot out, colliding with the lead man’s chest. The man went flying to the ground. Instantly the dire wolf at his side was on the attack. She reared up to knock Willy to the ground, planting her paws on his chest. She pushed him into the soft dirt, snarling over his ear.

Fiore, who’d been watching from the back of Raylene’s saddle, jumped to Willy’s defense. Hackles raised, she spat at the wolf nearly three times her size. Dire wolves and sea servals didn’t get along at the best of times, and Willy feared a fight would break out right over his head.

Spitting and cursing, the navy man sat up. One side of his face was completely caked in mud, his hair stuck up like a hyena dire’s. The men and women who were watching did little to conceal their mirth at the sight. He spat mud from his teeth. “Cock and pie -” _pfft!_ “Cod-swilling - _pfft!_ Low-bred - _pfft!_ _Imbecilic_ -” Slipping in the mud, he rose shakily. “Secure him!”

The weight disappeared off of Willy as the dire wolf stepped away, and took up position beside her ridiculous bonded. The crew members who stepped forward didn’t exactly look enthused about the order, but they were willing enough to oblige. Willy was hoisted to his feet. Rough rope bond his wrists.

“I’m on yer lot’s side, ye daft nobs!” Willy protested. “Ye’ve no right to tie me up - I’m a regular citizen, me!”

“Ya struck an officer o’ the navy,” one of his captors pointed out calmly. “That’s generally reason enough to have ye strung up.”

“Wot? How was I s’ppose to know he was?” The sailor shrugged, having no explanation of his own. It was simply the law of the sea. One didn’t question such things.

One of his followers had offered their leader a clean handkerchief, which he used to mop his face, before tossing it away. The dirty cloth landed on his dire wolf’s snout. He shot Willy a death glare that seemed out of place when his hair looked like a chillawing who’d been rubbed on a carpet. “You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer,” the man told him primly.

Willy puffed himself up. “Under who’s authority?”

Long-face’s eyes bugged out a little. “My authority. Or have you not noticed yet that you’re already that my men are holding you captive?” It was a little hard not to notice, but Willy didn’t say as much.

_Huh. So this is why Sorren always tells me to let him do the talking._

One of the sailor’s holding Willy spoke up. “Shall we take ‘em back to the ship, sir?”

The man seemed to consider this. He glanced at his dire wolf, who looked up at him with a severe expression. “I don’t have patience to suffer Cicero’s snide comments. No, we’ll take him along.”

“Not to overstep my boundaries sir, but have you considered the fact that he could jeopardize -”

The man in charge waved a dismissive hand, cutting off the speaker. He didn’t feel the need to justify his reasoning further. Instead he leveled a finger at Willy, who scowled at the offending digit. “I don’t know how you got here, but if you want to make it back to civilization, you would be wise to behave yourself.”

Willy internally bristled at the threat, but on the outside, he was all smiles. Fiore came to twin around his legs. “Do we look like trouble?”  _Ye stuffed turkey griffin,_ he thought to add, but the tiny Sorren in his head was waggling his tiny Sorren finger at him with a warning look. Willy batted his lashes innocently.

The officer turned on his heel without further response. “Secure that slepinir.” He pointed at Raylene, who was still making eyes at the other equine.

“You traitor,” Willy growled at the pink sleipnir, as a wolfkin woman with a harelip grabbed hold of the creature’s reins. The sleipnir didn’t pay him any mind. “After all we’ve been through too. You’re a tricky wench Raylene.”

The wolfkin gave him a bemused look. “You do realize this is a stallion, don’t you?”

“No. That’s a…” Willy paused. “Cor’…Well, hang me by the twiddles and call me Cerdiwen. Raylene - you was a cove this whole time?” The pink sleipnir whinnied. “I guess I should’ve seen that coming. You lying son o’ a nag.”

Willy was tied to a post in the center of sailors’ camp. No one bothered the same for Fiore - these were sailors, and they knew ‘twas bad luck to try and keep a serval what didn’t want to be kept. So the bright fuchsia feline went stalking through the camp, befriending the other creatures who made up their little expedition, as they packed up to move out on their journey. Willy saw her saunter over to the lead man’s dire wolf once. The dire had her attention elsewhere, and received a nice full smack on the nose from Fiore’s tail. She was so startled, Fiore was able to duck out of sight before the wolf could react.

Alongside the sleipnir, Willy saw several other sea servals, who were bonded companions to the sailors, as well as two otterlings, and a peg-legged old Rune dragon who kept spouting lines from a rowdy tavern song about the Boys of Brinemont, where, after the thirtieth rendition, Willy knew the men were all merry and the women all stout.

Willy was a bit surprised at the lack of leg any of the sailors showed as they packed up camp. It was nearly noon, shouldn’t they have finished by now? This was the navy. The pride of the silver seas - he would’ve thought their sailors were a bit more… efficient. Men sat cross-legged playing six stones, while a woman played a set of pipes. Here and there, a few sailors bundled their hammocks, and cleaned up cooking supplies, but the attitude was lackadaisical.

Willy overheard a sailor reporting that three of the sleipnir had broken into the rum supply and were too drunk to walk straight, which seemed to be the main cause of their delay. The sailors were each trying out various home remedies on the equines.

_ I hope Sorren’s alright.  _ He was a resilient bird, so Willy had every confidence that he was, but being lost alone in a strange wilderness was a perilous prospect. But there was nothing to be gained in worrying. He had to be on the alert for the first opportunity to get back to him… and his quest.

 


	9. In Which Sorren Reaches New Heights

Sorren rolled over and pushed himself to all fours, assessing his body, one joint at a time. He winced, as his battered muscles protested. Well, he dreaded to think what tomorrow would feel like, but nothing was broken.

The halfborn struggled to his feet, and looked around. Above him he could hear the constant thrum of rune dragon songs that ran through the whole forest. Didn’t they ever get tired of screeching at one another?

A rustle behind him prompted Sorren to leap into the air. He missed the charging rooster griffin by inches. The big brute skidded in the leaf litter, and spun round, crowing a new challenge.

Sorren snarled. “I don’t have time for this.”

When he’d joined the Watch Crows he’d imagined life would be exciting, full of challenges he could throw himself into. Finding himself facing down a wild, giant chicken in the middle of the jungle was not one he’d imagined, but then he couldn’t argue with Fate’s definition of exciting.

Sorren’s eyes scanned the area. Luckily, Raylene had left a wide swath of destruction through the underbrush that Sorren could easily follow. Unluckily, an inflated rooster stood between him and the path.

The griffin lunged, bright eyes rolling in it’s skull. It clacked it’s beak as Sorren ducked and rolled behind a tree. He couldn’t simply keep dodging this beast until one of them was exhausted - he was sure to lose in that regard.

_Use your environment_ , he could hear Master Thanatos reciting from their lessons years ago.  _A sharp rock may not be as elegant as a sword, but in the right hands it’ll do the same job._

There were no sharp rocks around here though. Just plants.

As he dodged another attack, his eye landed on a dead tree, covered in thick woody vines. The bright green vines were wrapped tightly around the tree; had choked the very life out of it. Brilliant purple blossoms covered the vine. Thick coils of the stuff spilled out over the forest floor, tendrils of new growth seeking their next victim. They wrapped and coiled over themselves, as thick as rope. The sight of them gave him an idea.

Sorren minced towards the dead tree, the griffin matching every step. He stepped into the middle of the vines, careful to avoid snagging a foot on them. Another step brought him deeper into the tangle. The griffin stopped right outside the foliage, eying Sorren with malice.

“Here, chickee, chickee.”

The griffin fluffed up in affront. This was why Sorren didn’t try to be charming. “Look. Just come here.” When the griffin didn’t respond Sorren spread his arms, thinking how Willy might handle the situation. “That’s what I thought. I expected nothing less from a chicken.”

The rooster hissed and charged. As soon as the beast stepped into the vines, it’s large talons caught on the coils. It found itself pitching forward, nearly slamming into Sorren. The halfborn leapt away. As he darted aside he grabbed a vine and threw it over the rooster’s back feet. He pulled, impressed as the vines held.

He piled more and more vines over the beast. The griffin slashed and bit, it’s struggles only ensnarling it further. As it thrashed it kicked vines over Sorren, making them writhe like snakes. They wrapped around his wrist and legs, pulling him down. The halfborn ripped away at them desperatly. It was then Sorren noticed the explosions happening around them. Their battle disturbed the large purple flowers. With a burst they released great plumes of pollen into the air. One struck Sorren in the face, and made him sneeze. The air around them turned golden as pollen flew everywhere.

A thick gold dust settled across their struggle. The griffin looked like a golden statue come to life, covered in glittering golden chains encrusted with amethysts the size of Sorren’s head. It threw it’s wings up over its head and swayed, as if fending off an attack. Sorren held up his own hand to find a purple flower wrapped around his wrist, winking at him.

The absurdity of the moment struck Sorren then. He started to laugh. The griffin stared at him, and then, Sorren could’ve sworn, it started laughing too, a bubbling  _‘koo-ku-koo-a-coo.’_

Sorren’s brain felt… fuzzy. Thoughts seemed to slip from him before he could reach out and grasp them. He could remember what he was doing, but it suddenly didn’t seem so utterly important. Not nearly so important as the gold speckles in the air than glinted in the green light of the forest, or the gurgling laughter of the runes overhead. He shook his head. No, no - his mission was important. Whatever it was.

The rooster griffin rolled over on it’s back, legs waving lazily in the air. It swiped at the glittering sparkles. Sorren stared at him, then tried to snatch a handful himself. When he opened his palm there was nothing there.  _There’s nothing there…_

Sorren’s brain was in a fog. The atmosphere felt heavy around him; the world was awash with golden pollen.  _What a curious defense mechanism…_ Sorren thought as he scratched his head and drew his hand away to find the bandaged appendage covered in a fine gold dust. He gave it a sniff without thinking, and began sneezing up a storm. It tingled all the way up his nose and into his brain, giving him a giddy, relaxed sensation. The pollen filled his nostrils, smelling strongly of sticky-sweet flowers. It overpowered everything else. 

He stumbled out of the tangle of vines, compelled to get out of the haze as quickly as he could. He wasn’t sure why. The vines seemed awfully nice - they didn’t have any teeth like the daises, or skin-burning acid like the violets. They didn’t even resist his escape attempts, but they did seem disappointed at his leaving all the same. “No, no, I really must go,” he insisted. “Goodbye, Mister Featherbachur.” The griffin waved a back paw lazily.

He pushed his way out of the vines, and stumbled through the forest. It really was a most pleasant day for a stroll. The forest was cool and shady. And the runes were singing so sweetly to the tune of “Sweet Raginmar”.

Almost as quickly as the fog descended it started to lift. His thoughts returned, but sluggish and unmotivated. He looked back to see the griffin still held within the stupor of the pollen cloud.

_I should sit down and wait out the effects,_ Sorren thought, relieved to find he was able to form the thought. He looked down at his arms, at the tiny hairs covered in fine pollen dust and frowned. He needed to get this stuff off him, and fast, before something bigger and hungrier than a chicken griffin came to investigate. Forgetting the first thought, he followed through on the second and began to look for some way to wash the pollen off.

Walking through the forest in his state was a bit hit or miss. He felt pretty normal, but nothing around him seemed to register quite the way it was supposed to. Everything felt a bit detached, as if he were simply making up the landscape as he came upon it. He was walking for several minutes before he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to follow the path Raylene had made. He turned around, and started walking back. Wait. Hadn’t he been trying to get away from that crazy griffin? Why was he heading back? Willy was up ahead. So he turned around again.

Stumbling across a stream he washed as much of the pollen dust off of himself as he could. The stream bore golden swirls of pollen away, as he dunked his hair into the cold water. He breathed a sigh of relief as the sickly-sweet smell finally evaporated, and his head felt infinitely clearer. It was as if he had wandered through a snow scape, everything muffled and alien, before bungling into his house, and having his senses restored. Sorren’s head ached fiercely, but he suspected that had more to do with being hungry and tired rather than the effects of that drug.

_Hmm, I wonder if that plant might have more practical applications than mislaying griffins._ The Watch Crows might be interested in such a drug, especially if it did not need to be ingested. But he was not the man to bring them a sample. He washed his clothes, than scrubbed his hair and skin while they dried. He’d have none of that pollen making itself known at an inopportune moment. He could just see Willy picking up one of his boots and getting a whiff of pollen and…

_Willy!_ In this whole pollen escapade he’d lost track of what he was even doing in this ancient’s-cursed jungle. He had to find Willy again. No telling what sort of trouble he’d get into without him.

Now that his head was clear Sorren scolded his lack of thought, wandering aimlessly through the forest, probably away from his goal rather than towards it. But there was no help for it now. He was lost. Well, ‘lost’ was a relative term when one had access to a bird’s eye view. That would be his best course of action. He reached out along the bond he shared with Muzu to locate the crow.

Sorren found him resting on a tree limb, snacking on a frog. Well, at least one of them seemed to be enjoying this trip. Muzu felt Sorren’s mind touch his, and the halfborn felt a good deal of curiosity at the odd state the crow found it in.  _Never mind that Muzu. We need to focus._ Muzu cackled to himself, and Sorren flushed angrily, refusing to dignify the laughter with a response.

_Muz_ u, Sorren impressed upon his bonded,  _Willy and I were separated. I need your help locating him._

“ _Muzu!_ ” The crow crowed out, flapping his wings to resettle the flight feathers. Sorren leaned back against a tree, closing his eyes, before snapping his vision onto Muzu’s. The crow took off, eyes blazing, and began winging through the canopy. He took short leaps from tree to tree to avoid collisions, showing Sorren the sticky webs set high above the forest floor, their giant furry occupants strangely absent. Up in the canopy there perched chillawings, stuffing their cheeks with nuts and berries. Sorren was surprised and delighted to see the fluffy little rodents, looking fat and sleek. Wild chillawings were rare outside of the ancient elvian forests. Black market dealers were always eager to scoop up any that were blown clear of the forests by storms. He wondered when this little colony had been established.

Muzu carried him past before he could consider more of the chillawings’ origins. Muzu flew through the sunlit canopy, past flowers the size of Sorren’s whole torso. Giant ferns sheltered in the crooks of tree limbs, and on the burls of long branches. Their rhizomes twisted out into the open air, where tiny societies of iridescent humming bumbles had established themselves, feeding the great ferns waste and water.

The air here was heavy with humidity, and made flight even more tiresome than usual, but Muzu was persistent.

_There!_ Sorren called the bird’s attention to a line of broken foliage far beneath them. Muzu fluttered closer to give Sorren a better view. The half-born noted the way the branches were bent - no native animal moved through the jungle like this, but sleipnir were creatures of open ground, so they plowed through most any type of cover without thought. That must be Raylene. The angle of the breaks told Sorren the direction of their quarry, and he sent Muzu to follow the trail.

With a jolt, Sorren came back to himself. The bond connecting him and Muzu could still be felt, an invisible string tugging him along towards the path. Sorren quickly dressed. He followed the gentle pull on his mind, straight as the crow flies to join the bird.

It was a long walk, and as the sun began to dip below it’s zenith, the leafy canopy trapped the heat close to the ground and quickly became stifling. His wet clothes clung heavily to him, feeling decidedly less cool. The halfborn had to stop frequently to take sips from his canteen, and rest. He didn’t want to hear it from Willy if he passed out from dehydration on his walk to find him.

The dense vegetation hampered fast movement, and so he took the opportunity to practice moving as stealthily as he could, a skill he’d always excelled at. Walking on the balls of his feet, he gently nudged aside every branch and leaf that might crack underfoot and give him away. It was well he was moving silently, when he heard the alarm call of a crow up ahead.

He dropped into a crouch. Sorren would recognize his bonded’s voice anywhere. He opened the link between their minds and waited for Muzu to contact him. It wasn’t long before he felt the crow’s consciousness trickling in to meet his own. Muzu was agitated. Sorren closed his eyes and pulled himself along into the crow’s mind. Muzu blinked, and turned his head towards what he wanted Sorren to see.

A dozen brightly colored sleipnir marked the end of the trail, pushing their way through the jungle in a parade line. Their backs overflowed with packs and supplies - a caravan. Sorren’s heart dropped at the sight, but at the same time his curiosity was piqued. The sleipnir were tied in a long line, accompanied by a host of sailors, no doubt from the ship he’d seen. They called out to each other in sea-roughened voices, filling the jungle with their own brand of racket. Their progress was slow but steady, slashing with weapons deeper into the island’s heart.

_What in the world are they doing so deep in the jungle?_ They weren’t far ahead of him now, so he severed the mental link with Muzu, and went to scout with his own eyes.

Shadows worked to break up his shape as he stole closer, led by Muzu. He followed their connection, cautiously moving aside the foliage, until at last he laid eyes on the line of travelers.

This was where Raylene had come from, Sorren realized. He could see the Tangled Blossom breed’s distinguishing marks - resembling flower petals and vines snaking up their legs. Their coats were a riot of color; pink, purple, and soft daisy yellow. A rainbow on parade in a sea of viridian.

Beside them, in just as colorful attire were sailors. They joked and pushed one another, their servals and otterlings gamboling gaily between the sleipnirs’ legs. The steady equines were unfazed by the going’s on underfoot. All that was, except one. Sorren instantly recognized Raylene - the brightest colored, most high strung of the group - prancing and pawing at the back of the line. If Raylene was here…

His two-toned eyes scanned the line back and forth. And then, Sorren’s heart gave a leap, for there was no mistaking that rakish plumed hat. He moved closer, being careful to keep low to the ground, and in the shadows.

There was Willy! He had his lower lip stuck out in a pout as he trailed behind the last sleipnir. His hands were bound and tied to the last in the line’s halter. Aside from looking a little put out, he seemed no worse for wear. Fiore was draped across his shoulders, looking just as annoyed.

Reassured, Sorren waited until the line had passed him and out of sight. He counted out the minutes in his head, before calling silently for Muzu. The crow gave a throaty caw and came winging into view. He landed on Sorren’s outstretched arm. The crow hopped up to his shoulder, where he began to run his beak through the halfborn’s hair, chattering happily.  _“Sorr-en!”_ the bird croaked. He sounded like a scolding mother berating a child, as he plucked a stick from his bonded’s hair. He dropped it huffily.

“I fell off a sleipnir - what do you want from me?” Sorren teased, tickling the crow’s chest feathers. “You get some rest,” Sorren told him, settling the bird into the crook of his neck. “I’ll do the scouting from here on out.”

~

Sorren trailed the party through the jungle for the rest of the day. On two occasions they seemed to backtrack, or get turned around. Sorren found himself rolling his eyes every time he passed the same tree again. The party sent out no patrols or outriders - either Willy hadn’t alerted them to the fact that there could be other people on the island, or else they didn’t see them as much of a threat. It left time for Sorren to try and relax; roll down his shoulders, lengthen his stride - not altogether an easy task for him. It proved even more difficult as thoughts of the caravan’s purpose plagued him. A surveying expedition? Recovering a lost shipwreck? Or something more sinister?

As evening came upon them, the caravan discovered a fresh water lagoon. The sailors whooped and cheered at the sight of the aqua-blue water. Sorren found a nearby rock and climbed it. Dense foliage blocked him from their view, but afforded him vantage over the entire south side of the lagoon. There, a large sandy area made the perfect camp for the caravans. Sorren and Muzu settled in. Muzu to rest his tired wings, and Sorren to watch the unpacking.

In the center of the flurry of setting up camp, a man with a dire wolf was giving orders. He must be the commander of this operation. A tall lanky figure, he seemed inclined to trip over his dire wolf as he strode about, barking this or that. He saw that the sleipnir were tended to first. Their saddles unpacked, they were waded out into the water with much enthusiasm on the parts of both two- and four-leggers. Water was splashed over their sides, the sweat and dirt rubbed off hides of man and beast alike.

Only a few sailors didn’t participate in the bath. Among them was Willy. He was secured to a post close to the camp’s edge. Sorren watched closely, but no one seemed to approach him.

With the long shadows growing as the sun sank over the trees, Sorren eased off his rock ledge and slunk quietly over towards his companion. The dense foliage offered enough cover for him to crawl almost right next to the man. An overgrown ficus sheltered him from sight, and he settled into a more comfortable position.

“Will. _Will._ ” Willy looked up at the sound of his name being called.

“Sorren? That you?”

“Aye.”

“Oh, thank the Ancient of Perfect Timing.” The man wriggled against his bonds. “I’m relived yer alright. I tried to tell these goons ye needed help, but their leader’s got more cotton between the ears than brains - a real peery priss. They tied me up, and they’ve took away Raylene - did you know she’s actually a he? Got rod and tackle and everything.”

“And this is exactly why I put an embargo on all fishing analogies.”

Willy wasn’t listening. “So, I admit - the milk thing didn’t pan out, but Raylene’s still got that _frying pan, o_ n his saddle Sorren. So I’ve been thinkin’ up a plan. First, Fiore will cover my hands in honey. Next, Raylene will smell the honey and chew the ropes. Then I grab the frying pan, give ‘em all a bull crack on the noggin, and then -”

“I don’t think you should try and escape yet, Will.”

“Wot? Why?”

Sorren leaned closer. No one had heard Willy yet and come to investigate, so he chanced raising his voice. “I want to find out what exactly they’re up to. It could mean trouble for us. Don’t you find it a bit odd that they just happen to be here on an otherwise uninhabited island, that we just happen to have wrecked upon? And why are they so deep into the jungle - surely whatever they need could be found within walking distance of the beach.”

“Not particularly, no. That’s how Fate _works_ Sorren. She’s a queer tabby what throws people together onto deserted islands, with pan-sporting sleipnir, and. Such is her enigmous whim.”

Sorren smiled at that. “Irregardless, I think it’s best you stay with them. I’ll follow, and send Muzu to gather reports from you.”

Willy scowled. “I hate reports. Almost as much as I hate jumped-up navy knobs.”

“These sailors may likely be our only ticket out of here, so play nice. Cozy up to them - get them to talk. You’re good with people. That strange man in charge - he’s sure to know something.”

“Ah, ye want me to charm the pants off of Mister Stuffypants, is what you’re saying.”

Sorren smiled to himself. “If you like. Just promise me that whatever you charm off, that  _your_ pants stay on.”

Willy sucked at his teeth. “That’s a tough one, but for you pretty bird, I think I can manage.” He winked, but at the bush next to Sorren. “I’ll send Fiore with some food for ye, soon as things get settled. You go get some rest - this lot’s slow as fat on a cold day.”

Sorren, still smiling to himself retreated back to his perch, where he settled down with Muzu to wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "That’s how Fate works Sorren. She’s a queer tabby what throws people together onto deserted islands with questioning sleipnir and lovelorn lady chickens. Such is her enigmous whim." - is my new motto.
> 
> Shhh... Stop questioning things, Sorren. Let me write my silly fanfiction, you beautiful birdman.


	10. In Which A Glass Smith Hedges His Bets

“Yer lookin’ a bit dry there, mate. Care to wet your gullet?” Willy looked up into the weathered face of a wolfkin man. He was a grizzled looking fellow, with wisps of grey-brown fur framing his sun-weathered face. An otterling frisked at his feet, chirping excitedly.

“Yes, please.” The wolfkin stooped to untie him from the post, looping the rope around his fist. It was a bit difficult for Willy to struggle upright with his hands bond together, but he managed with as much dignity as he could muster. “Lead on, my good fellow.”

The wolfkin brought him to the lagoon. Willy stooped to cup the cool water and splash it in his face, grateful for the refreshing crisp cold after marching several long hours through jungle. He splashed the water across the back of his neck, pausing to work some egg shell remnants out of his hair.

As he was straightening, a sound of disagreement reached his ear. Willy looked over to see the leader of this little brigade whirling about left and right and spitting obscenities at a horde of humming bumbles that were taking stabs at him. Willy couldn’t help but smile. “Having a bit of trouble there, isn’t he?”

His wolfkin guard chortled. Laugh lines around his eyes betrayed a cheery disposition. “Ye don’t know the half of it, mate. Trouble follows that one like a curse. Needs to boot that dire fer an otterling, don’t he Isla?” Isla chortled and did a backflip into the water.

“Is he… yelling at his dire wolf?”

“Aye. That’s our Lieutenant Roscoe. Bit touched in the head.” The wolfkin gave Willy a side glance, no doubt judging just how much he should tell this captive. But if Willy knew one thing about sailors, it was how much they loved to gossip. There wasn’t much else to do on long sea voyages. And true to form, the man couldn’t resist an eager new ear to bend.

“Last ship he served,” the wolfkin whispered, “went down under mysterious circumstances. Lost most of the crew. Then five weeks later he comes sauntering back into town - Admiralty suspected he had something to do with the sinking.”

Willy lifted his brows. He couldn’t fault the wolfkin’s need to scandal-plant - this was some choice gossip. “Did he?”

The man let out a barking laugh. “I doubt it. Got no brains for sabotage. He’s either the luckiest son of a glitch alive, or the least. Presumably innocent.” He shrugged. “They stuck him out here to keep him out o’ more trouble.”

“In the middle of a jungle?” Willy asked. “I suppose that would keep one out of most types of trouble. But why are you lot all here?”

The man suddenly went cagey. “Don’t look at me, matey. I just follow orders.”

“Oh, now I hardly believe that.” Willy chuckled. “Sailors have ears bigger ‘en a prong fox’s. Ye hear officer talk. Can’t be ye don’t have some idea of why yer in this ancient’s-curst jungle.” Every ship Willy had served in, be they merchants, pirates or otherwise were, by their close-knit nature, not conducive to secrets. Even stowing away aboard the necromancer’s ship, where most of the crew had lost their eyes to rot, they’d been discovered quickly, throwing a wrench in their plans for subterfuge.

“I ain’t paid fer ideas.” The wolfkin snorted, double checking the ties around Willy’s wrists. “All I know is - Cap’n gives the lieutenant orders, and we follow the lieutenant.” He was getting more agitated. Willy sensed the door to more answers was quickly closing and decided to drop the matter. Obviously the man with the real information was this Lieutenant Roscoe.

The wolfkin led Willy back to the camp, where the cook fires were already being lit. They passed by the sleipnir as they were being dried off. Raylene had been separated from his lady friend in the bustle, and was looking dejected. Upon sight of Willy he lifted his head and nickered. Willy glared. “You traitor. Whatever happened to ‘Willies before Fillies’, huh?” Raylene grunted.

As they settled down by one of the fires, the wolfkin introduced himself as Oudier Al’asnan. “I find being at sea is one ‘n’ the same as being on the desert,” he explained, “‘cept the desert there’s less chance o’ drowning.” As he spoke he filled a bowl with steaming burgoo from the pot, and handed it to Willy. The glass smith struggled to balance the bowl in his bound hands.

Fiore came swaggering over as the crew all tucked in to their meal. Willy held out the bowl, and let the feline take a few cautious laps. When Oudier handed him a biscuit of hardtack he broke it in two and shared it with the serval.

Willy was surprised to be welcomed by the sailors gathered around their fire. They had been at sea and were starved of news from home - his was the only fresh face they’d seen in months. And considering his own face, Willy could hardly fault their fascination. They pelted him with questions. How long had he been on the island? And how had he come to be here in the first place? What were the latest feuds and scandals out of Alabaster’s royal houses? How was the crop back home?

Willy wove a tale of his shipwreck, making dashing and daring, with undead sea serpents and cuttlefish attacks, and sprinkling in the character of a wicked, mad captain who’d gone down with the ship.

Once his audience had relaxed, Willy regaled them with reports from Silverport, most of them only slightly exaggerated. A string of robberies headed by a corrupt government official had been rooted out; the annual jellies fair had resulted in a huge riot and a fire that burned down a warehouse, until a fire brigade put it out; the latest fashions from Alabaster favored more billowing sleeves and elaborate neck ties, and Willy made them all laugh as he tired to demonstrate the various knots with his bound arms.

More sailors swung by to collect their bowls, and swap stories. Among all the company, with their various builds, faces and colorations, there were only two wolfkin. The second was a well-built woman with fierce features and a harelip. She growled when she saw Willy. “What is the prisoner doing loose?”

Willy raised his bowl in his hands to show he was, in fact still bound. “Eating.”

“Lieutenant didn’t give orders to starve the poor cove,” Ouider offered as explanation.

She grunted, unconvinced. “If he escapes, I’ll be sure to tell the Lieutenant you said as much, Mr. Al’asnan.” She snapped her teeth together with an audible _clack_.

Willy leaned over, as the scary wolf-lady turned her attention to her food. “For all she’s yer own kind, she doesn’t like you overmuch, does she?”

Ouider raised an eyebrow at Willy. “You assume being that we’re both wolfkin that means we have to like one another?”

“Well, maybe kind of, yeah. I would’ve thought ‘pack mentality’ - that sort of thing.” He forced hardtack into his mouth to keep from sticking his foot further in it.

The scruffy wolfkin’s eyes nearly disappeared in the crinkles of a smile. “Oh, we get along well enough. She’s not half bad as Eada’lbahrs go. See, our clans have been feuding for centuries; we like to keep up appearances. Isn’t that right Hamir?”

Hamir looked him dead in the eye, visibly bristling. “Ouider, you are an insufferable blood traitor, and your clan is a blight on the fair sands of my homeland. The only reason I tolerate your smell is because after centuries of inbreeding your blood runs so thin, I could drink you like a waterskin in times of trouble. In an entire clan comprised of impotent cowards, you were deemed incapable of serving as either a warrior or a breeder, and so you find yourself an equally incompetent sailor.”

Ouider shrugged, turning up his smile at Willy. “She reminds me of my mum.” Hamir slurped her burgoo in protest.

As conversation turned to other subjects, something caught Willy’s eye. He glanced over to see the lieutenant sitting at a travel desk, a short distance away. A fine spread sat on his desk; oranges, a wedge of cheese, and honeyed oatcakes. But the lieutenant had no interest in the food. He was staring into the middle distance; a card danced and floated through his fingers effortlessly, it’s bright white face winking in the light. _At least a passingly knowledgeable card hand then,_ Willy thought to himself. Ideas began tumbling in his head, turning end-over-end like the card in the longshanks’ hand.

He turned to his companions with a grin. “Any of you know how to play Lady’s Cup?”

One of the women produced a set of faded cards, and Willy began going over the rules. It wasn’t easy with his hands tied together, but thankfully there was enough slack to allow him some movement. The game consisted of taking tricks, with the highest card value being the Lady of Cups. In the case of this card set, as with most, the Lady of Cups was the Ancient of Shadows. The crude illustration had her holding forth a goblet of deep red liquid, while shadows danced around her, obscuring most of her form. But there was a caveat to her card, for if the player held on to her for too long and the game ended, the points she would’ve given were instead retracted. The game required a certain amount of strategy to maneuver the card so it was only in your hand when you were able to use it.

Willy divided the sailors into teams of three and they proceeded to play. It was not a game he was particularly skilled at, and he won as often as he lost. Eventually he noticed that their game had attracted an audience. The lieutenant had wandered over, and was hovering just inside the light of the campfire. Willy tilted his head toward the lieutenant. “Care to play?”

“Lady’s Cup?” The man snorted dismissively, but his eyes were bright. The dire wolf standing by his side looked surly. “Child’s play.”

Nonetheless, Roscoe curled his long legs into a tailor’s seat and settled himself amid his crew. The sailors exchanged grins with one another as they shuffled their teams to better accommodate their officer.

Willy dealt the cards and a new game commenced. Roscoe might have lacked the sense not to capture innocent glass smiths, but he was a fiercely competitive player of Lady’s Cup, carrying his team to an easy victory with a marriage of the seven of shields to the ace of wands.

The deck passed to Ouider, who shuffled it under the lieutenant’s careful eye. “I’m sure a man like you could ill-suffer a paltry game like this for long.” Willy watched the lieutenant closely, but Roscoe pointedly ignored him. “How’s about something a bit more interesting?” Oudier paused in his dealing to look between the two of them.

Roscoe snorted. “You’re hardly in a position to gamble, Mister Amidas.”

“It’s Amadeus. Wilhelm Amadeus the Third. And I don’t know if ye’ve noticed - but I’m always in a position to gamble.”

Hamir opened her mouth to say something but Roscoe interupted. “What exactly do you expect to gain?”

Willy grinned. He nodded towards the lieutenant’s makeshift desk where his untouched plate was set. “I’m not a small man by any means, Lieutenant. I’ve been wandering this island for a few days now, and my ribs’ll just cave in if I don’t get something a bit more’n watery burgoo and hardtack in ‘em.”

The lieutenant’s dire wolf looked alarmed, but Roscoe was incredulous. “You expect me to gamble my rations with a man who assaulted me and was found stealing one of my sleipnir? On _Lady’s Cup_?”

“Uh… well, when you put it like that, I guess it is rather -”

“At least choose a more interesting game like Rogue’s Ruff.”

_Ah._ This man was almost too easy a cully. If he were still in his dishonest ways Willy could win a tidy sum off him no doubt. He could see tiny Sorren now, tapping a foot and shaking his dark head - _oh come off it, tiny Sorren; it’s not like you never stole anything. I’m not like that anymore._ Willy made a show of chewing his lip, mulling it over. “Haven’t played in a while. Do ye mean to go by Northern rules?”

Roscoe nodded. The crowd around them brightened. No doubt they were sick of burgoo and hardtack as well, and eager to get their daddles on an officer’s rations of fruit and meat. Hamir leaned forward with a hungry look in her eye.

“Right then. Shall I deal?” Willy held his bound hands towards the deck. “Ouider deals,” the lieutenant said sharply. Willy sunk back, shooting Roscoe an annoyed look. The wolfkin looked nervous as he took the deck and shuffled it, nearly fumbling the cards.

When he called for bets, most of the sailors laid down baubles or trinkets. The lieutenant offered a sack of oranges, which got all their mouths watering. Attention then turned toward Willy.

The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his freshly won basilisk fang. Eyes around the fire widened. “Won this beauty in a bit of a scuffle recently.” It was easily worth twenty sacks of oranges. He spun it so the white ivory caught the firelight and seemed to glow.

He set it in the pile and the game began.

Servals and otterlings gathered to watch the cards hit the dirt. Willy was dealt a poor hand, but luckily Rogue’s Ruff was a game of bluster and bravado, as much as it was skill.

“You lot do this often? Campin’ out under the stars?” Willy asked causally, as he rearranged his hand better to his liking.

“Not really, no.” Sterling tossed a card to the discard pile and drew another.

“I hate campin’,” one of the sailors griped. “Makes my feet sweaty.”

“That’s because you sleep with your shoes on, Wheatleigh.”

“There’s spider runes out there! You expect me to take off my shoes with those critters crawling hither and yon?” He shuddered. “No thank ye. Don’t see why we had to come to this forsaken island anyhow.”

“Just be glad you don’t have to rub elbows with jolly ol’ Cici back on ship,” the lieutenant muttered.

Ouider nearly choked on his grog. “Cici?”

Sterling raised a finger, grinning. “That’s what mother always called our dear Captain, growing up, before the little master put on long pants.” The crew seemed utterly delighted by this novel revelation that their captain had been a small child at some point. Willy didn’t know who this Cici was, but he found it amusing to hear their ribbing. They bemoaned the strictness of their captain, but there was a grudging respect in their tone. All except Roscoe’s. Willy supposed it was born out of some sense of sibling rivalry.

Willy listened attentively while the sailors gossiped and played. The glass smith lost some, and won some. He could’ve cut his losses, and sent Fiore to deliver to Sorren the meal’s worth of food he’d acquired, but he wanted an excuse to linger and listen in on the conversations. The lieutenant’s tongue loosened more and more with each game, win or lose.

As the night wore on, and the camp grew dark, the sailors began to drop out when they ran out of things to bet. They retired to hammocks and tents, but Lieutenant Roscoe showed no sign of stopping. Soon only he and Willy were left - Willy had hedged his bets, in anticipation of just such an event. The bright pink serval, and the dark blue dire wolf lay across from each other, fully attentive to the other’s movement, as much as their humans were towards one another.

Willy scanned the lieutenant for tells. The man was a fidgety fellow, with shifty eyes, and a proclivity to chew his lip in thought. But Willy had had all night to shift through these meaningless quirks to see the tick that told him when to play his hand loose.

The lieutenant clicked his tongue as he studied his own hand, and plotted his next move. On the line was a veritable feast by a sailor’s terms; fresh fruits, a sack of grains, a wheel of cheese, a small vial of cinnamon, and a jar of pickled herring. And one basilisk’s fang, still fresh from the beast. But all that paled in comparison to the real prize. A bottle of cooking oil. Just the very thing for the pancakes!

Willy studied his own hand, which to his dismay was quite poor. He looked at the lieutenant, who was scratching his chin absentmindedly. With a big grin, the glass smith threw a few baubles he’d won into the pot. The lieutenant squinted, as shifty eyed as a ferret rune. The dire wolf growled softly in her throat as she watched.

Lieutenant Roscoe was not one to back down from a challenge however. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, looking down on the baubles. “What did you say you do for a living again?”

“Glass smithin’”

“Ah.” He sounded like he didn’t believe it. “I’ll call.”

“Ye didn’t add anythin’ to the pot.”

Roscoe raised an eyebrow. “You were pretty attached to that sleipnir didn’t you?”

Willy sputtered and flailed. Raylene might be a traitor, but like hell if he wasn’t gonna try to win the florescent equine. Surly Sorren would let the sleipnir stay in the living room until Willy built a house for him in the backyard. He grinned. “Raylene would match my hat perfectly! Ye’re on!”

The lieutenant’s dire wolf snarled, as Willy scrambled to turn out his pockets and find something of equal value to match the bluff. “Oh stuff it, Moritz,” he could hear the lieutenant telling the wolf. “We had already written the stallion off as a loss. This just saves more paperwork.” When the wolf bared her teeth, Roscoe waved her off, striking her muzzle by accident. That was enough for her. She walked away, her twin tails rigid with annoyance. Willy wasn’t sure if wolves could sulk, but if not she gave a mighty good impression.

Willy cursed when he realized he had nothing else on him to bet. “I don’t think I’ve anything to up the ante.”

The man tilted his head, and studied him closely. “Didn’t you mention something about some golden treasure?”

Willy had to think back. He hesitated. Betting his pancake mix? It felt… wrong. He was sure there was some unwritten law: Thou shalt not bet pancakes, or something of the like, that strictly forbid such actions. Still he’d come too far to back down. “I had to leave it behind.” Willy glanced at Fiore who favored him with a long slow blink. The sailors who had lingered to watch the match perked up. There never was a sailor who could resist pancakes, in Willy’s experience. “It’s stowed on the far side o’ the island. Though it goes against my better judgment, if ye win, I’ll take ye to it.” Willy opted not to mention that it might be buried under a mountain of cuttlefish.

Roscoe seemed satisfied, even smug. “Shake on it.” He held out a hand. Willy had to awkwardly maneuver his cards so he could reach out to grasp the lieutenant’s hand and give it a firm shake.

Roscoe spread out his cards with a flourish, revealing a two pair. Two laughing Tricksters, and a pair of tens.

Willy whistled in admiration. “Not a bad play,” he confessed. “But a trickster is still no match for a queen.” Rosoce frowned. Willy turned over his cards, revealing the Queen of Shadows herself and her counterpart, the Mistress of Fate.

Roscoe scowled, and then, oddly he broke into a resigned chuckle. “She foils me again, the old Fate-teller. You play well.” He collected the cards, as Willy gathered his winnings to him, like a drake reveling in its hoard. He was _rich,_ rich in oranges and cheese!

“I would’ve liked to see your mysterious treasure,” the lieutenant said, as he pushed himself to his feet. He stretched, working out the tension in his shoulders. Fiore settled down next to Willy and began to purr.

The glass smith gave him a crooked smile. “Perhaps next time, ye’ll have better luck.”

The man nodded. “’Tis a shame you didn’t think to bet your own freedom. Now ye’ve a mount, and several days worth of supplies, but nowhere to ride. I will bid you goodnight, sir.”

With a dip of his head, the lieutenant turned and retired to his tent. Willy stuck his tongue out as his left - that was really a low blow. Besides, he wasn’t ready to leave quite yet.

“He is one vindictive bastard.” Fiore meowed in agreement. “Lucky for us he’s also a dense one.” Fiore’s tail shielded his hands as he shook the two cards from the slits in his sleeve. Willy hadn’t been sure he’d be able to get away with the deception - he wasn’t a cheating man nowadays by any means, and was greatly out of practice. But he wasn’t about to leave Sorren’s meal ticket to chance. They both needed their strength; even the tiny Sorren in his head had agreed. Hunger had a way of placating one’s conscience.

Willy’s hands were still tied, but he was otherwise left to his own devices. The sailors on watch duty would catch him if he tried to escape - or mayhaps they’d just let him go. It wasn’t like there was anywhere _to_ go on this island.

He slipped the bottle of cooking oil into an inner pocket, to ensure it’s safety. The rest he handed off to Fiore, bit by bit, save for a few tidbits he kept for himself - he hadn’t been exaggerating, he was quite famished. He hadn’t eaten any pancakes in days, and as a result, his energy levels were dropping dangerously low.

“Fiore,” he groaned, right before the serval was to start her ferrying mission. “It’s… too much. Can’t… go on… Tell my pretty bird - I loved him… and his pancakes. Bleh!” He flopped over on his side, tongue lulling. The sea serval gave him a curious sniff. Then she snatched the half eaten banana from his hand. “Hey!”

Sorren decided not to question the half eaten banana that had been dropped in his lap, and received the rest of the food gratefully.

 


	11. In Which A Scarecrow Upsets Some Spies

Sorren was popping orange slices into his mouth as he watched the camp prepare to disembark. After a long morning they were finally ready to leave.

The halfborn was sore and irritable that morning, having had to sleep in a tree all night. Which, no matter what Muzu said, was not conducive to a good night’s rest. At least he didn’t have to worry about food. And for that he owed Willy. _I really do need to make him pancakes when we get home._ The thought of home seemed nice that morning. Funny how one’s feet always longed for the open road when propped up and warming at the hearth, but how fickle they became once a little soreness sprang up.

Muzu seemed invigorated that morning. He dove and swooped and sung out in his crackly voice, joining in the melodic songs of the runes and other morning dwellers that called the island home. Sorren scowled blearily at the display, masking a heart lightened to see the bird enjoying the day.

The man watched from his perch in the canopy as the caravan ran sleipnir races, collected fruit, swum in the lagoon, and did just about everything other than pack up camp. That was, until the skies opened up and it began to rain, and everyone ran for shelter beneath the large ferns at the edge of the camp. Sorren settled in the crook of a tree to wait out the storm. He was beginning to yawn when he noticed a small flurry of action.

He recognized the dire wolf he’d noticed yesterday, following at the heel of a man as he paced around in his shirtsleeves. That must’ve been the lieutenant, though Sorren could’ve sworn he saw the same man earlier carving a face into a papaya. He kept going back to a map he had on his traveling desk under a tarp, scowling at it, and then pacing out into the rain again until he repeated the process. It didn’t seem to be getting him anywhere. Except increasingly waterlogged.

Sorren would’ve given his eye teeth for a chance to look at that map; to find out what exactly they were up to. “Muzu,” he spoke softly. The bird needed no other prompting.

The crow drifted down like a fallen leaf, alighting upon the desk. The bird’s eyes glowed a soft blue, barely noticeable in the bright morning light, as Sorren read through his eyes.

Instantly Sorren could see what the cause of the lieutenant’s exasperation was. The map had no meridians, no distance key, no information of any kind besides a few sketched landmarks. The expedition’s progress was charted in the lieutenant’s scrawling hand, zigzagging back and forth, and crossed out in several places, with compass readings hastily jotted down in a mishmash.

 _This is impossible to read,_ Sorren concluded. The only thing he could divulge was that the group was headed north, towards the highest point of the island, which bore a strange decorative grid pattern. And according to this they were getting close. Also whoever was in charge of the red chalk had had the inclination to draw a fruit hat and glasses on one of the decorative elkrin that graced the map.

“Oh, go on! Shoo! That’s not food!” Muzu cawed and winged away as the man returned to flap wildly at him. He landed on a nearby branch and lifted his tail at the man to show just what he thought of his rude interruption.

 _At least I know their destination now_ , Sorren thought, packing up the remainder of his and Muzu’s breakfast. It seemed the lieutenant’s agitation was infectious; the whole camp began to buzz with impatience. Sorren could see Willy, his hands still bound, happily gallivanting about the camp, chatting up the sailors as they readied the sleipnir. He smiled to himself.

It was almost midday by the time they got underway. Sorren matched step above their heads, traversing through the sub canopy with ease. Rain from earlier had evaporated some of the humidity, and the climate felt superb, especially when the sun squeezed through the leaves to warm his back and shoulders. Below he could hear them all talking and laughing. Then a hush fell.

Sorren nearly lost his footing on a branch, and paused, ears straining for sound. Suddenly, the crew burst into raucous song, voices lifting through the trees, adding a layer to the jungle symphony. It wove beneath the murmurings of water, and the cackle of the rune dragon calls, through the thrumming timbre of the thousands of insects. Sorren hurried on, following the call and answer of the sailor’s chant.

 

“ _Oh, the wind is running clear off the coast of Gul’un Kay,_

_The wind is running clear off the coast of Gul’un Kay,_

_The wind is running clear off the coast of Gul’un Kay,_

_But my true love isna’ there,_

 

_And we’ll ro-o-oll down, roll down to Alabaster-o!_

_We’ll ro-o-oll down, roll down to Alabaster-o!_

_We’ll ro-o-oll down, roll down to Alabaster-o!_

_But my true love isna’ there!”_

 

Sorren’s feet carefully traversed highways of interconnected branches. The sounds brought on a flood of old memories, especially when Willy’s deep singing voice rose up through the rest, coming down hard on the _roll_ s, like a ship pitching down into the trough of a wave. Long nights spent huddled belowdecks while the roar of an angry sea rang in their ears, and only Willy’s inane singing to drown its screaming threats out.

Muzu flitted about, doing one of his favorite mimics of a turtle dove rune in tune to the song. Sorren leveled an evil red eye on him, but the crow just flipped backwards and flew away cawing towards Willy. His voice seemed to get a little louder.

After noon came, and with it the temperature began to climb once more. The sea shanties were cut off by a string of curses, bringing Sorren to a halt. He looked down through the broad leaves to see the group had stopped. Carefully, he dropped down to a lower branch, and saw what the problem was. The party had run straight into a patch of thorn bushes.

The lieutenant in the lead, was cursing and stomping as he pulled thorns from his arms and legs. His dire wolf sat beyond the ruckus, looking smug. With a growl, the man drew his blade and flung it at the vegetation like a mad man. Sorren couldn’t help but shake his head, especially since moving a few meters to the left would’ve afforded them a path through the thorns with no problem. Instead he had to sit and watch this man hack at plants as if they’d called his mother’s integrity into question. The other sailors joined in, though with a good deal more efficiency, their cutlasses being better suited to the task.

This was taking too long, Sorren decided. They would be delayed for some time, and there was no reason he couldn’t scout ahead. He told Muzu to keep an eye on things and climbed onward. After the thorn bushes, the jungle became open scrubby woodland, and then quite suddenly stopped completely at a cliff. As Sorren looked up, he saw this was no cliff, but a conical hill - a karst, towering above the surrounding tree line. Dense ferns covered the hill’s sides, except in a few places, where towering spires of rock made it too steep for even the most dogged of them to latch on. The top of the hill was marred in a thick mist. Sorren watched as a gentle breeze teased it, but it would not be blown clear away.

The halfborn slipped down from the trees to get a closer look. Rune dragons roosted on every ledge that wasn’t already claimed by ferns, cawing and squeaking happily. Small lines of broken foliage marked elkrin trails crisscrossing up the karst’s sides. A rustle in the bushes forced Sorren to dive behind a boulder, as the party of sailors finally burst through the underbrush. The leader looked considerably worse for wear, covered in tiny scratches; his once snowy shirt, now torn and drenched in sweat. The group came to the base of the hill and stopped to water the sleipnir. The boulder Sorren was hid behind was covered in colorful tiny rune dragons; they blinked their jeweled eyes at him curiously. He silently bid them to be quiet.

“Now what?” he overheard a wolfkin woman ask the lieutenant as the man dumped a canteen of water over top of his head.

“Damn it, Cicero. Mountain climbing now?” he muttered. “The map seems to point to the highest point on the island, so I suppose that’s where we’re going. Maybe we can shoot a canon off at the Captain’s huge head while we’re up there.” He laughed, but there didn’t seem to be any joy in it. “We’ll wait until it cools down. I think we could all use a bit of a siesta, after that trek.”

“Yessir.”

The halfborn stole back to the shelter of the foliage. The sunlight and lack of cover made it difficult to hide near the camp. Sorren had to go the long way round to reach the jungle again, and linger in the green shadows, waiting impatiently for the sun to move and offer him a path to approach. He moved from rock to fern, until at last he was close enough again to spy Willy. He could’ve sent Muzu to hear the man’s report, but given the nature of this caravan he suspected he could waltz in without a problem. And truth be told, he wanted to see him.

The glass smith had moved away from the main body of the crew. His hands were still bound in front, but they seemed to have given up on trying him to anything. He was reclining against a fallen log, hat pulled down low over his eyes, the plume stirring ever so slightly. A little beyond, a man who looked to be on watch duty was instead trying to open a coconut without success. It was almost too easy to steal across the open patch of ground and hole up beside the log.

“Will.”

“Ah, there ye are Sorren.” Willy masked his greeting with a loud yawn, stretching luxuriously. “I take back ever’thing I said about the navy - this is easy livin’.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re enfoying yourself. Have you learned anything useful?”

“Aye, as a matter o’ fact. I learned the lieutenant is an absolute madman. They stuck him out here under the thumb of his brother after he went missing for a few weeks. That’s who’s running the ship, by the by - his brother. The man’s also a fair hand at cards - and a mite bit too loose with his betting.” Willy chuckled to himself, and sunk back against the log. He looked as though if he stayed there for very much longer, he’d sprout moss.

“Well, I suppose this proves it. They’ll give anyone a rank in the navy if he has the right pedigree.”

“You think I could get a job with them?” Willy asked. “Admiral Willy - it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? You could be my Flag lieutenant. You know how to hoist my flag- Ow!” This last exclamation was on account of Fiore, who had knocked him one in the head.

“You’ll be hoisting your own flag, if you keep that sort of talk up. Remember why we’re here, Will.” Willy grumbled something in reply. “I overheard this man speaking with one of his crew. They’re headed to the top of the island. Any idea what for?”

Willy shrugged. “Crew’re surprisingly loose-lipped bunch, except when it comes to that. You want to know the color of Captain Roscoe’s knickers? Or the number of mistresses the bosun keeps? Or what our friend, Mister Starch-for-Blood puts in his coffee? I could tell ya. But that? I got nothing. I think they’re as in the dark as we are.”

“Hmm. Strange, sailors always know what’s going on, even when the officers try to keep it secret.”

“Syrup, Sorren. He puts syrup in his coffee. I mean, what sort of a madman does that?” Willy was shaking his head. “More importantly, why have we never tried it? I refuse to be out-syruped by that scarecrow.”

“Scarecrow? _”_ Sorren exchanged a glance with Muzu. The black crow shuffled his wings.

“Yeah, on account of the great big stick shoved up his -”

 _Clang!_ Sharp steel rang out like a shot from a canon. The group of them all jumped. Muzu took off with a caw. Willy rolled on instinct, but with his hands still tied, found himself overbalancing and landing on his side in a heap. Fiore disappeared inside the log.

Sorren made a dive for the jungle and it’s cover. It wasn’t nearly close enough. The dire wolf was on him in an instant, knocking him to the ground. She stood on his back calmly. Sorren lay still. There was no point in trying to fight dire wolf when pinned. He had better luck playing at being dead. Sorren mentally scolded his own lack of attention. The laziness of the sailors had lulled him into a sense of safety. But the wise words of burglars from time immortal came back to him: never try to fool a guard with four legs.

The lieutenant stood before Willy, sword drawn. The rest of the sailors surrounded the two interlopers, bristling. Roscoe pointed his sword at Sorren. “I knew you were up to something,” he spoke to Willy. “Conspiring with this… with…” The man seemed at a loss. He lowered his blade. “What are you two miscreants up to anyway? Are you spies? Pirates? Exiles?” He tilted his head, to better survey the two of them. “Misplaced circus performers?”

“We’re spies a’right. Yer Captain sent us!”

“What?” Sorren and the lieutenant spoke the word as one, turning to look at Willy as he wriggled around to face the two of them.

“He wanted to make sure you were staying on track.” Roscoe looked doubtful at this. His dire wolf started growling low in her throat. “He hired us to spy on you - he didn’t think you were up to task.”

“ _Will_ ,” Sorren hissed.

“I find it hard to believe Cicero would spend precious coin on a pair of spies for me,” the man muttered. Sorren had the feeling it was supposed to be under his breath, but it was more than loud enough for them all to hear. He lifted an eyebrow at Willy flopped over on his side, still wriggling. “Then again, couldn’t have cost very much.” His eyes, darting around in his skull, grew more and more frantic in their movement. “Look, whatever that bastard thinks, I’m no traitor. But what I am hardly concerns you now.” He pointed his sword between the two of them. “You should be more concerned with what becomes of bumbling spies…”

Before the threat had time to sink in, one of the sailors suddenly chimed in. “Let’s dunk their soft bits in honey and throw ‘em to the humming bumbles!”

Roscoe sounded like someone who had had to explain this several times before.“No, Vivian. No humming bumble-based torture, remember? Besides, we don’t have any honey.”

“Ohh.” Vivian slumped, looking disappointed.

“That’s because _someone_ gambled it all away on Rogue’s Ruff last night.”

Roscoe whirled on the speaker.“I will send you straight back to the ship, Hamir! Don’t think I won’t!” Hamir wrinkled her nose, looking surly. The sailors exchanged uncomfortable glances. Sorren could feel the lieutenant’s hold on his crew starting to weaken. A wave of dissension seemed to ripple through the onlookers. _That could be useful,_ Sorren thought, _or else incredibly dangerous._

“Perhaps it’s time we all went back to the ship.” Sorren turned to see the crew’s other wolfkin. The man spoke softly, but rationally. “We haven’t found anything, and we’ve nearly run out of food. We had a nice bit of leisure, but - ”

“ _No!_ ” The lieutenant and Hamir shouted as one, so fierce Ouider stepped back in alarm. The lieutenant hissed like an angry serval. “We’re right where the map says we should be. Food or not, we can’t turn back. I am not going back to Cicero empty handed! If any of you weak-hearted old crones want to go crawling back to face desertion charges, be my guest.”

Sailors are not a lot to threaten lightly, and these were no different. They growled, bristling at the insult. Roscoe must not have been a complete idiot, because he recognized the need to divert their angry glares from his own person and quickly.

“If these two are who they say they are,” he gestured at Willy and Sorren, “you can be sure they’ll tell Cicero of anyone’s calling it quits. All of us would be slapped in irons upon returning. Not least of all me.” This seemed to work. Suddenly no one seemed to know who they should be angry at. Roscoe or the two spies. “That is, if they’re not lying.”

Willy offered up the sweetest smile he could in the face of the lieutenant’s glare. It would’ve melted a glacier’s icy heart. “Do I look like the type who’d lie to you, buddy?” Roscoe’s face twisted into a grimace.

“Maybe you’d have better luck convincing a _scarecrow,_ Willis. If that even is your real name.”

“Uh… My name’s not-”

Roscoe wasn’t paying attention. “Spies or no, these two obviously are after the same treasure our captain tasked us to find. I wouldn’t be surprised if that gold you mentioned before doesn’t rightfully belong to our ship.”

“Gold?” Sorren asked, confused. He thought the general consensus was that they were spies, not treasure hunters. “Your captain sent you out treasure hunting? You know they have people who do that for a living, right?”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Roscoe growled. “And hold your tongues. The both of you!” He leveled his sword at first Sorren then Willy. “When an officer is speaking, prisoners shall be silent.”

“But I wasn’t saying anything!” Willy protested.

The lieutenant shot him a glare, but continued to address his crew. Somehow he found it in himself to gain at least a modicum of self control. “The map clearly points to something at the top of this hill.” He pointed upwards. “If Captain Roscoe is to be believed, the thing we are after resides there. Our task is to recover it, by whatever means necessary.” He shot a look at Willy and Sorren when he said this. “Now, does anyone have any objections to the Captain’s orders?”

The crew had the wherewithal to look a bit shamefaced as their lieutenant challenged their confidence in their captain. “Good.” The lieutenant’s shoulders relaxed as he felt control slip back into his fingers. At least for now. “Bind him,” he instructed two of the sailors, waving towards Sorren.

“What shall we do with them, sir?” Hamir asked, as Sorren and Willy were dragged to their feet. The halfborn nearly screamed as his bandaged hands were seized roughly. Willy snarled and lunged at the woman holding Sorren, only to be stopped by Ouider’s steadying mitt. This whole expedition was teetering on an edge. If the lieutenant made the wrong step, or one of the crew decided to push just a little too hard, this whole group could erupt, and Sorren didn’t want to add fuel to that fire.

“Take them with us of course. Cicero wanted to see what I was up too, so let’s give his spies a front row seat.”

 


	12. In Which There Is Much Evil Doing

Willy’s foot slipped on the rock, sending a cascade of pebbles tumbling out into the open air. “Careful, Will!” Sorren cried out. Willy regained his footing on the narrow path, shaking slightly, and offered up a grin to say it was alright.

Willy and Sorren had been put at the front of the line of sailors, the lieutenant and his dire directly behind them, followed by the rest of the crew. The steep trek was deemed too much for the sleipnir and they had been left behind at the base of the hill.

“It’s too narrow here,” Sorren announced. “We’ll have to double back.”

“Well, ye heard him,” Willy shot over his shoulder at the lieutenant.

With a grunt, Roscoe sent word back along the line that they were turning back until another path opened up. The hills were riddled with game trails carved out by elkrin, though no one had yet spotted one of the elusive animals. But rune dragons were everywhere, and every path they took they had to shoo away several stubborn ones who refused to budge from their perch.

The wind up above the jungle robbed the air of it’s humidity, and on it Willy could smell the tang of sea salt. It carried as well the wheeling cry of winged sea gliders. Here the air was cooler, fresher, freed of the oppressive tangle of the jungle’s cycles of life and decay.

The party made their way back to a huge spire of rock that resembled a seashell. Their approach startled a hundred odd runes to lift from the spire in a rainbow flurry of fur and feathers. Here at it’s base an impressive bed of ferns spread out. They seemed the only plant able to thrive in these cliffs, but damn if they hadn’t made good work of the guano. They were deep enough to make a bed in, coming nearly thigh high in some places, and so thick Willy couldn’t see his feet when he looked down.

A familiar weight clawed it’s way up his back to drape across Willy’s shoulders. “Ah, there ye are, me lovely.” Willy chuckled. “No luck on masterminding the next move, yet?” The sea serval gave a ‘mert’, sounding truly offended. That’s when Willy looked up to see the glint of ivory below Fiore’s whiskers. With a twitch of her nose, she slipped down Willy’s coat.

“Ah, I knew I should ne’er have doubted ye, heart-o-mine.” He felt the velvety muzzle thrust into his hands. The cool weight of the basilisk fang was pressed to the fat of his thumb, cold as a dagger of ice. He quickly covered it in his fist. The serrated edge scraped at his palm. He turned to look behind him and gave Sorren a broad wink. Fiore leapt clear of him, and disappeared into the thicket of ferns.

Lieutenant Roscoe chose a different path and sent Sorren and Willy first, following close behind. Neither of them argued; the best thing they could do now was follow orders and try to locate this treasure as quickly as possible. After that… well, they’d see what would happen next.

Sorren slid along the fern choked pathways, carefully checking his footing before trusting his weight to the stone. The group made their way further up the large hill following the two castaways. The trek left Willy’s throat parched, and his calves burning. He was a glass smith for Dolos’ sake, not a mountain elkrin.

Sorren came to a halt, and peered to the right. “What is it?” Willy asked, leaning to peer around him. He could feel at his back the lieutenant’s lengthening ears.

“I’m not sure. Might be our destination.”

“Let’s see it then.” The lieutenant pushed forward.

Sorren moved, giving Willy a look at what he’d uncovered. Two large spires of rock lay against one another, leaving a dark crack between them, a dark splash of ink, that seemed to grow in intensity as Willy looked at it. A chillness radiated from the void that felt both refreshing and unnerving; a cold, empty wind in a place so warm and teeming with life - it felt wrong. Like finding your soup to be a watered down consomme.

On taking a few steps closer, Willy found a half eaten worm in his soup. Carved into one of the boulders, a long gone explorer had thought to etch a primitive skull into the rock. The lieutenant walked forward to trail a finger down the lines. Eroded from wind and weather, across unknowable decades, it’s message still rang loud and clear: Danger. Stay away.

“Well, then.” Roscoe turned to look at the two captives. He gestured for them to walk forward. “‘Age before beauty’, as they say.”

“Well, we all have to grow into our face eventually, I’m sure.” The lieutenant scowled. Ah, ‘twas like sunshine in Willy’s heart to see smugness so completely wiped off that mug. Roscoe put a hand on the glass smith’s shoulder and pushed him into the crevice.

“Try not to get killed by any booby traps or pitfalls or giant bat drakes,” Willy heard the lieutenant’s tinny voice behind him. “We still need to question you about this whole mess - would prove rather inconvenient to the interrogation if you were dead.”

Sorren’s eyes gleamed with malice. “We’re not under your orders, lieutenant. What if we refuse?” His voice was casual, as if he were asking Lieutenant Roscoe if he preferred brandy or claret.

The man seemed a bit taken aback by this refusal, obviously unused to having orders so brazenly challenged. For a minute, he seemed incapable of providing an answer. “Well then, I suppose you could scurry on back to whatever ship you came from. Provided it’s still in the vicinity.”

Willy and Sorren exchanged glances. Sorren grimaced. Willy nervously cleared his throat once, then twice. “I suppose that settles matters,” Roscoe announced. Damn if that smug look wasn’t back in place. Just like the carpet back home - Willy would never be able to keep it clean.

“Ye wouldn’t really leave us marooned here,” Willy scoffed. “He’s bluffin’. I played enough Rogue’s Ruff with ye to pick up on when ye’ve got a mouth load of ballast.”

“I’m not going to leave you marooned - good ancients, no. Yeesh - can’t imagine having that bit of nastiness on my conscious. I’m not sure how my Captain would feel about his two spies being caught and taken hostage though. Probably not too kindly.”

Willy didn’t think he’d fancy meeting this Captain Cicero to judge by the reactions of the crew whenever that particular name was mentioned. Especially since, well, they weren’t actually working for the captain. Willy stared down Roscoe, searching for any weakness. “Alright. He means it Sorren.” Sorren growled at Willy. The tiny Sorren in Willy’s head was voicing exactly what Willy imagined the big Sorren would be saying if they were in private. Very unsavory things.

“Moritz.” At her master’s word, the dire wolf went sharp. She was small for a dire, but that did nothing to diminish the threatening snarl that rumbled in her throat. Willy and Sorren took a collective step back on instinct. Moritz followed, hackles rising. Muzu scolded the wolf loudly, stamping his feet on Sorren’s shoulder.

“Nice doggy.” Willy tried out a warm smile. Moritz flashed her own teeth back at him. It wasn’t nearly as warm.

Suddenly a fuchsia streak shot between the lieutenant’s legs. Roscoe yelled, and nearly overbalanced. Fiore leapt over Moritz’s back to land gracefully in front of her humans. With a warning hiss she whirled to face the dire. “Fiore!” The feline paused. Willy’s voice was soft, almost pleading. He saw her tail twitch, questioning why he was staying her. Behind the dire and her lieutenant, the sailors crowded closer, eager to see the drama playing out so close to the end of their journey. Fiore could take on a full grown dire wolf - of that, Willy had no doubt. But not the whole of them.

“I’ll go first,” Willy told the lieutenant. “Just keep your mutt away from Fiore.”

He turned to face the entrance, so black he might as well have been walking into Oblivion itself.

Sorren stopped him with a loud snort. “We both know the role of knight in shining armor doesn’t suit you, Will. Besides, I have better night sight.” He stepped up besides Willy. “We’ll go together. Side by side.”

“Sorren - I’m -” he was about to say that he was touched.

The halfborn cut off any attempt at sentiment when he leaned in and nodded at Willy’s hands and the fang they still clutched. “Get ready to use that thing.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, no - that’s what I was thinking too.” Eever the practical one, that Sorren. Willy swallowed down the half-formed declaration.

The entrance to the cave proved quite the tight squeeze, so for at least the first few steps Sorren’s sweet suggestion of walking in together had to go by the wayside. Fiore seeped herself into the cracks quite easily, but Willy was forced to turn sideways and shimmy along awkwardly. The lieutenant and his wolf followed. The man fashioned a makeshift torch and held it overhead.

Once past the tight entryway, the light from the torch revealed the cave floor as a jumble of rocks that dropped downward into a slope. Willy would’ve missed his step if Sorren hadn’t slammed his bound hands against the glass smith’s chest to stop him.

At the toothy urging of Moritz, the pair of captives eased themselves down the rocks. Roscoe stood above, casting light on the path below while surveying his crew as they clawed and wriggled their way inside. The men and women paused to light more torches, before following after Sorren and Willy.

The one sailor’s rune dragon clutched a tiny torch in it’s good foot and struggled to lift it, wings flapping madly. He flew down, shining light across the sloping cavern and sending the shadows scurrying wildly back into their nooks and crannies. This was not a place meant for light, and the darkness seemed to voice it’s displeasure with hisses and scrapes. Patches of black lurked in the corner of Willy’s vision, waiting like beasts outside of a campfire. Waiting for the wind to blow out the light.

Willy gulped. He felt as if he had traversed a portal into an alien world, leaving behind the vibrant, cacophonous, humid surface and finding himself suddenly in a sepia-toned, muted world as cold and dry as a mummy. This was not his Eldemore, surely.

“It feels like the coffin of the earth,” he whispered to no one in particular. His voice echoed off the rocks. His past statement coming back to him like a ghost, soft and chilling and whispering of coffins.

“That’s freaky.” The cave agreed with him. “ _Echo_!” Willy shouted. No one shouted back this time, but the cave walls seemed to shudder, humming. Sorren nudged him. The halfborn leveled a look at Willy that he could read as well as if it were written across Sorren’s forehead: _Focus, will you?_

The sound of the sailors following in their footsteps seemed overly loud in the enclosed space, as they bounced off the walls tenfold. There was no dirt or wind to muffle their footfalls. The air was stale and brittle. The slip of a shoe on stone shattered it, and sounded like the grind of a mill wheel. A cascade of small pebbles would be transformed into the roar of a rock slide.

At the base of the slope, Sorren halted to better gauge their surroundings. “See anything?” Willy asked his sharp-eyed companion.

“Apart from some lewd carvings, no.” He stepped closer to one wall. “We’re not the only ones that have been here.” He ran a palm over the stone. “There are dates carved here.” He squinted at the last line. “Though it appears our last castaway was not able to finish adding his own mark to the others…” A slender finger traced the incomplete number.

“Maybe they were rescued,” Willy suggested hopefully. He dreaded to think what otherwise might have happened to them. “Or mayhaps they got distracted by the lewd carvings?”

“Mayhaps.” Sorren abandoned the rock, continuing onward, and the party followed. The cavern narrowed to a tunnel, and continued to descend, though not at nearly so steep an incline. In certain areas the path leveled out completely. Willy and Sorren kept close to each other’s sides. The sailors followed behind in twos and threes, their murmuring sounding like a host of cicadas.

The tunnel gradually grew narrower and winding. Sorren and Willy found themselves clambering over and in between massive limestone deposits, splashing through pools of murky water that had likely never known disturbance in dozens of years, if not more. Willy shuddered to think what sludge creatures they stirred up in their passing.

All the while Willy kept an eye out for traps or markings of any kind. A pile of faded rags poking out beneath a boulder caught his eye, but he declined pointing it out. Whoever they had belonged to had no need of their help now. Some of the walls held scratches that looked to be man made. Or perhaps even animal made. Could be they once held some meaning, but the darkness made that meaning indecipherable.

Finally they came to a tunnel littered with bones. To anyone else, it might look like a liger’s leftovers, but not to a Watchcrow. Someone had arranged these bones. Willy looked at Sorren, and could see he recognized the meaning as well. Necromancy.

The sailors gathered round, muttering fearfully, wondering why their two leads had stopped. A hiss of metal sounded like the scrape of drake scales as Roscoe drew his blade in the close cave.

“What’s the hold up?” he demanded, peering past the two of them. There was a slight tremor in his voice, that might have been rage, but Willy knew better. The lieutenant was spooked.

“We shouldn’t go on,” Sorren said, his voice calm and commanding.

“I’m agreeing wi’ Sorren. Treasure or no, this cave is no place fer the likes of us. It should be left to rot.”

“What? You’re frightened by a few old bones?” the lieutenant laughed, a bitter, joyless sound that echoed hauntingly. “What, are they going to do? Come alive and eat us?” He snorted.

“Open yer eyes, ye damn fool!” Willy growled, thrusting his face into the lieutenant’s. “Why has this cave no runes roosting in it when they’re all over the island, huh? Why are there no cave moss, or bat drakes, or bedding in it?”

“How should I bloody know? I’m not a biologist. For that matter neither are you!”

Willy threw his arms wide. “These bones didn’t just appear out o’ thin air. People have been here. And they haven’t all made it out.” Willy pointed at the cave of bones. “Or do ye really want to end up like these poor devils, left fer dead, alone down here?” Sorren knelt by the bones and studied them. Some of the sailors crowded around for a closer look.

The lieutenant was trembling with rage, but something seemed to click with him. He exchanged an apprehensive glance with his dire wolf. But it was not his voice who spoke next. “We came all this way fer a treasure, and sure as Hubris has fangs, I intend to get it.” Hamir spoke up in the center of the sailors. “If you little boys are so scared, ye can run home to mother.”

“Enough Hamir!” Roscoe snapped back into action at the wolfkin’s challenge. He turned back to Willy. His voice was oddly quiet as he spoke directly to him. “You sailors and your foolish superstitions. People die in the wilderness all the time. This is just an old ursa den. We haven’t encountered any obstacles so far. I see no reason why we shouldn’t press on.” He pushed past Hamir.

“No! Wait!”

Sorren’s warning came too late, as Roscoe’s foot hit a bone. There was a loud crunching sound, and the lieutenant froze mid step.

“What was that?”

“Nothing good, I’d imagine.”

The walls around them began to shift, no… something on the walls shifted, started running down the rocks. Sorren leapt up as water swirled around the old bones. More water came gushing out of the walls, quickly filling the cavern.

“Find the source of it, and plug it up!” Roscoe bellowed.

“Seek higher ground!” Hamir cried, backing out of the tunnel.

“Hamir!” But Hamir wasn’t listening to Roscoe any longer. Neither were the sailors. They broke for it, scrambling up the sides of the tunnels, reaching for the exit. With a growl, Roscoe sloshed his way towards the wolfkin woman, but he was hampered by the rising flood waters and the press of bodies as the sailors and their animals jostled for the exit.

Willy saw the chaos as opportunity, and began sawing away at his binds with the serrated edge of the fang. Muzu screeched and bated on Sorren’s shoulder in growing alarm. The halfborn cast about for a way out, and saw a hole above them that seemed to offer a dry escape. “Will!” He thrust his chin at the hole, and Willy nodded in understanding.

“Come back!” Roscoe was yelling as his crew ran up the tunnel. “This is… mutiny! You’ll come back immediately!” He waved his torch around, as the water roiled around his knees. The cave grew dark as twilight as the crew made off with the rest of the torches, leaving only Roscoe’s light bobbing back and forth. Willy suddenly couldn’t see his nose in front of his face, let alone his hands to cut himself free. He stumbled in the half-light, searching for Sorren.

Willy’s struggles were cut short when something wrapped around his mouth and pulled him into a tight grip. A harsh voice whispered in his ear. “Trying to escape?”

Heart hammering, Willy stared at the split lip of Hamir. “Sorry, ‘bout that.” Before he knew what she was about Hamir slammed him against the wet rock. Stars burst before Willy’s eyes. She leaned in close. “Now, how about ye tell me about this treasure ye’re keeping? We could split it - jest ye, and me. Roscoe don’t need to know.”

Willy gasped in pain. “Now why - why would I be so inclined to do that?”

“Because our good lieutenant has made a sham of me and my gun crew. Because he’s threatened to clap ye in irons when we get back to the ship.” She gave him a shake, and sparks of pain shot through his head. “Because I’ll put in a good word with the Cap’n fer ye, whereas Roscoe would take all yer treasure fer himself.”

Willy wasn’t sure which Roscoe exactly she was talking about, the lieutenant or his brother. Not that it mattered. She’d never get his pancakes! He growled deep in his throat.

“Hamir!” Hamir released him as her lieutenant shouted for her. The water swirled around his waist. He cast about wildly. The crew had fled, and Roscoe’s one torch did nothing to illuminate the corner Willy found himself in with Hamir.

“Think on it, glass smith.” Suddenly she was gone from his side. Willy made a break for where he’s seen the hole Sorren had pointed out. There was no time to finish sawing through the tough rope. He ran his sides along the wall, searching for the exit.

The lieutenant was swinging around wildly, the light following. Willy heard a yelp, followed by a splash, and suddenly the world was plunged into darkness.

Willy turned on instinct, but he could see nothing in the dark. It was the darkest dark one could imagine, with no sky above, or even the promise of one. The sound felt amplified, and he could hear the splashing and sputtering of the lieutenant.

“Will.” Willy looked up at Sorren’s voice, somewhere about him. Two glowing blue pinpricks of light showed where Muzu sat on the halfborn’s shoulder. Relief flooded Willy at the sight - just the fact that he could still see. In dark this thick one could go blind without noticing it. “He’s over by the left wall.”

“Aye. And what do you want me to do with that knowledge?” There was silence as Willy imagined Sorren giving him a long blank stare.

“Alright fine! You owe me for this.”

The water was halfway up Willy’s chest. He slogged over towards the splashing and groped in the dark. A yelp told him when he’d grabbed hold of the lieutenant. He dragged the man towards Sorren’s voice, and hauled him up out of the water. He heard the slapping sound of a dire’s tails as Moritz’ pulled herself ashore and gave her whole body a shake.

Roscoe lay gasping on the tunnel floor. “I had… things… well in… hand.”

“Oh aye,” Willy agreed. The red head sat up, and pounded the water from his ears. “Setting off that booby trap, driving off yer crew. All according to plan, eh?”

“Oh. Shut up.”

The hole they found themselves in was above the waterline of the cavern below, though Willy worried that wouldn’t be the case for long. Mortiz uttered a soft bark. The sharp sound returned quickly, but went off forward without stopping. “We’re in a tunnel,” Sorren observed.

“You don’t say,” Roscoe snarled, voice seared with sarcasm. “A tunnel? As if we hadn’t been toiling around in tunnels for the past two hours.” His voice shifted as he stood up.

“Well, if ye’re so smart -”

Sorren interrupted “We should get moving. I doubt any of us want to stay here, and our best course of action would be to move forward.”

Willy nodded, then realized Sorren couldn’t see it. “Alright. Real quick though, on account of my not being able to see. Role call!”

“I’m here.”

_Merrow!_

‘ _Muzu!’_

_Woof._

Willy waited a minute. “Yoohooo? Anyone else?”

“You know I’m here,” Roscoe growled.

“Who said that?”

“ _I_ did!”

“Will, don’t tease. It’s dark, and he’s holding a sword.”

“Alright. Alright. Did anyone see where Hamir went?”

“Hamir? She took off with the others, didn’t she?”

Willy said nothing more, wondering if Hamir were listening, or if she had indeed took off back down the tunnel.

“Lead on then Lieutenant. Since I don’t fancy my sit-upon being poked by the likes of yer sticker.” There was a loud snort that might have been Sorren cutting off a guffaw.

Sword in hand the lieutenant took the lead, his dire wolf taking up the rear to ensure there was nothing funny afoot. They were forced to stoop as they went on. Every sound was magnified in that small space. The officer’s ragged breathing was like the snoring of some ancient, and his shambling footsteps became an army of one.

Something bright came into being around them. The soft light from Muzu’s eyes lit up an array of quartz crystals, blooming out of the rock, like flowers. Their clear prisms glimmered with veins of smoke and crimson, illuminating the tunnel with a soft glow.

“Odd,” Willy said. Sorren looked at him. “I wouldn’t have thought this island would support crystal formations this large.”

“A geologist too, now are you?” The lieutenant sounded exasperated. “Keep moving.”

“You do know what _glass_ smiths do, mate?” Roscoe rolled his eyes - or at least made a sound that implied it, and they kept moving.

Either Willy’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness, or it was getting lighter. They turned a corner and the narrow tunnel suddenly opened up into a wide cavern. Soft sunlight filtered down through an opening some thirty meters up. A delicate skin of water lay over the floor of the cavern, no deeper than a half inch, that gave the impression that they were standing on top of a mirror. A dense mist hung in the air, the result of water vapor becoming trapped, and as a result the entire cavern felt like a greenhouse. Moss dripped off the walls and clung to every surface of stone, and where the moss had died, mushrooms had taken hold, creating such a dense perfume of sticky sweet decay the three men and their animals gagged.

But by far the most impressive sight was in the middle of this cavern. A huge ancient ship’s hull, stripped of most of it’s planks and half stuck in the white rock. It resembled a huge blackened rib cage. And spilling out of it, like it’s heart’s blood were glittering mounds of jewels.

The sun was overhead, letting in more then enough light to explore. After the darkness even that dim light made Willy squint in pain. The lieutenant strode out into the center of the cavern, cautiously, the small band following after him. The slip-slap of his feet on the water’s surface echoed loudly, the ripple spreading out in even widening circles, until they struck the wall. The ground crunched beneath their feet, gold and sea shells forming the water bed.

Willy whistled at the sight of all that gold. Roscoe cautiously extended his sword and slid it under a necklace that sat atop a small pile. He lifted it up, and brought it closer for analysis. Willy had no such qualms, he bent and picked up a load of jewels and gold in his bond hands, letting them all fall through his fingers in the way pirates liked best. It was as glorious a feeling as one could imagine - like picking up a handful of fresh silver bauble pancakes. He resisted the urge to cackle manically, but only just. But despite all that something felt… off.

Willy drew the jewels closer, and squinted. He frowned. “This is naught but colored sea glass and pyrite.”

“What? No! That can’t be!” Roscoe shoved Sorren aside and bent to examine the riches closer.

Sorren had no interest in jewels. He shrugged off the rude treatment, and turned his attention to exploring the cave itself. It’s walls were riddled with strange markings and upraised rock. At the back of the cave was a raised pedestal, looking more man made than natural.

With a growl, Roscoe tossed the fake gems aside, and stood. “My brother is an idiot. Is there naught at all here worth  _anything_ ? Where’s Gallows’ treasure?” 

“Gallows?”

But Roscoe had lost interest in Willy and the false gems, and like Sorren was suddenly absorbed in the strange pedestal at the back of the cavern, and the dark shape that lay upon it. He pushed past Willy, and nearly trod upon Fiore’s tail. She hissed as he tramped past her. Willy watched in silent confusion as his companions seemed drawn, almost despite themselves to the pedestal.

The pedestal sat on an altar stone of sorts. It was bumpy and uneven, but distinguished from the other rock by it’s brilliant white color, a shade much lighter than the surrounding limestone. A dark lump sat upon it, like a black jewel atop a white scepter. Roscoe delicately placed one foot on the platform, pausing to see if there was anything nasty in store for him. He glanced back at the two captives, and finding neither reassurance or discouragement, stepped up fully onto the altar stone. Nothing happened. He visibly relaxed.

Once his back was turned Willy set about sawing at the ropes anew. Looking up to keep an eye on the lieutenant’s progress, his attention was distracted by a strange carving on the wall, that Sorren was studying. The glass smith frowned, peering closer. This was no lewd graffiti art. He squinted, trying to see through the mist, the moss, and the strange bright white veins of stone that spiraled around the cavern. The markings, though faded from time, slowly began to form a shape. A grid of some kind. An evil, vile grid.

“This sure as hell isn’t a pirate’s treasure…” Suddenly Willy knew something was wrong. He spun to call after the lieutenant. “Roscoe! Don’t!”

Even as he yelled out a warning, ripples fanned out across the water’s surface, like a sleipnir’s coat dispelling flies. Willy looked up to see the stupid scarecrow man reaching for whatever it was sitting on that pedestal. Willy lunged forward to stop him, as Sorren did the same.

The lieutenant frowned at the jet black object sitting on the pedestal. It looked like a lump of crude black obsidian. “The hell is this?” He grabbed hold of it’s handle, and the waters suddenly stilled, as if the cave were holding its breath. Willy stopped dead in his tracks, a cold stone hitting the pit of his stomach.

The lieutenant hefted the object into view by it’s handle. The thing seemed to pulse with a vile energy. The group below could just make out the shape of a huge, obsidian square with a ragged angry reg crack down the middle of it.

“It’s the _Waffle Iron of Doom_!” Willy wailed.

Sorren looked dumb smacked - an expression that Willy had never seen on the halfborn’s face before. He struggled to form full sentences. “You mean you… but how did - and why would anyone..?”

Roscoe scoffed. “Is this some kind of a joke? I swear to Oblivion, if this is Cici’s idea of a prank…”

Before he could give voice to his threat (which given that he was holding a powerful enchanted item full of unspeakable evil that the ancient of Oblivion himself no doubt had a hand in, was probably a good thing) the walls of the cavern began to tremble violently, throwing the lieutenant to the ground.

Unnerved, Sorren looked to Willy. “Earthquake?” The glass smith shook his head. Muzu cawed out in alarm. Fiore hissed, and dug her claws into Willy’s coat. Roscoe’s dire wolf took several steps back towards the exit, eyes darting left and right.

Just as Roscoe regained his feet, the rock beneath him gave a violent buck. He gave a surprisingly high-pitched squeal as he was thrown forward into the water, still clutching the waffle iron. The rock that had been his platform suddenly lifted up off the ground.

Sorren turned to run to the exit, but suddenly a long cable-like thing ripped out of the water with a sound like a trolley coming off it’s tracks, blocking the exit. It whipped through the air, whistling past his head as he leapt back.

Moss covered limbs snapped off the wall like pieces out of a mold. Rocks were ripped free and plummeted into the floor, sending water and rocks flying everywhere. Leathery sheets sliced through the fog. All around them, the very cave walls seemed to be coming alive, shuddering, shrinking in and encircling them in a cloak of condensing mist. The group of them were driven into the center of the lake.

A blast of freezing dust buffeted the party as they huddled in the center of the cavern.

Willy didn’t know what exactly was going on, but he knew he didn’t want to stick around to ask it to dinner. He fiddled with the basilisk fang in his hands, trying to saw through the rope as fast as he could. Darn it, why did sailors always have to make such sturdy ropes?

“Will…” Sorren’s voice held a tinge of concern, which for Sorren, meant things were beyond the concerning stage. Willy looked up, just as the ancient ship’s hull began to quake and slide. The wood creaked as it expanded. Slowly the platform that had held the pedestal lifted clear of the water. Two dark sockets, rows of sharpened teeth, giant horns. Not stone at all then; they found themselves staring into the eyeless sockets of a huge, living skull. Not just the skull, but the whole skeleton attached as well. Bony ridges ran over it’s eyes and swept back to form a pair of magnificently terrifying horns, twice the length of a man. It’s delicate neck bones were supported by scrapes of tattered flesh and columns of withered tendon and twisted metal.

As it raised itself from it’s watery grave, it bore it’s breast bone, curved like the keel of a ship hulk. No - it was the hulk! Long strips of naked muscle held the vessel by its curved beams swinging beneath the giant ribcage. The single surviving mast thrust up through it’s spine. Through some dark magic, wood and bone had merged into one giant colossus, the wood groaning under the weight of it.

Bony digits, each one the length of several slepinir laid end to end, tore free of the limestone, tattered leather stretched between each one. The skeletal creature fluttered it’s wings experimentally, stirring the water’s surface into a frenzied froth.

The men and their animals stared up in awe at this masterwork of necromancy. A fully grown, undead drake stood before them, reinforced with metal cable, and wooden plastron. It was massive enough to rival even the dragoons corp of elder drakes. This one must have been truly ancient before it had fallen into the hands of necromancers. It would’ve been a truly epic sight to ride into battle on the back of this monster. Willy decided not to take his chances asking Sorren if they could keep it in the backyard alongside Raylene.

Then the beast unhinged its jaw and forced the air out of wherever its lungs should’ve been. The vertebrae of its neck rattled in the attempt. The result was not so much a heart-stopping roar, as it was a blood-curdling death rattle that reverberated off the walls.

The lieutenant was the closest to the beast’s head, and the first to react. He took one look at this giant, towering undead monstrosity, and raising his waffle iron before him - took off running towards the exit.

“Real credit to the service there!” Willy yelled as he bolted past them. The snake-like head of the undead drake launched after the fleeing lieutenant, the tail vertebrae whipping through the air, forcing Willy and Sorren to jump aside. Willy landed on his shoulder with a grunt, and redoubled his efforts to saw through the ropes.

A loud thud sounded as the beast slammed into the tunnel entrance. It couldn’t quite squeeze its self inside, and flailed wildly as it tried to wriggle in after the lieutenant.

Willy felt the final strand of his bonds at last give way. Finally free, he pushed himself upright and searched for Sorren. The halfborn was rolling to avoid getting crushed by the stamping talons of the drake. Willy rushed to him, dodging the sweep of the tail and wings.

Just as he reached him, the zombie drake pulled it’s head loose, shedding rock and debris as it shook itself. Roscoe had vanished, leaving them to whatever Fate had in store for them. The drake looked sort of dazed, if an eyeless skull with decades old skin sloughing off could look dazed. One had to admire the skill it had taken to ensure the drake could live past it’s creator’s demise, although that skill had apparently not contributed to an abundance of brain power, as it once more tried to force it’s square head into the round hole.

Reeling back, the drake let forth another wheezy bellow, sounding like a set of moth eaten bagpipes. Willy kept one eye on the drake as he worked at the ropes binding Sorren’s hands. The enormous beast cast around the cavern, feeling the walls and knocking it’s head against low hanging stalactites. Rock dust rained down, and the creature grew more restless.  _Its blind_ , Willy realized. Or near enough to it. Made sense, considering the lack of eyeballs.

The fang was nearly through the rope when the tail slammed down between the two of them, separating Sorren from view, and sending   
Willy scrambling backwards. “Damn!” he hissed, seeing he no longer held the fang. He dropped down, plunging his hands into the shallow water. Crawling on his hands and knees, something heavy landed on his back. Fiore leaned over his shoulder.

He looked up at the serval, and his hand slipped forward. Something sharp sliced his palm. With a cry he fell backwards. Fiore tumbled into the water.

“Will!” Sorren’s voice from the other side of the drake was laced with concern.

“Just a little cut,” Willy yelled back, hissing in pain as he tried to stem the bleeding. It stung like liquid fire. _I really hope I didn’t just prick myself on a basilisk fang._ Because if he did, that would be a really stupid last thought to have.

The drake’s head came up suddenly. There grew a high pitched buzzing sound as the creature drew in a huge intake of air. Some remnant of it’s olfactory sense must have remained. The nostril cavities swiveled around to face the glass smith sucking at his wound. A patch of skin over it’s jaw quivered.

Sorren’s voice took on a more desperate tone, as he struggled against his bonds. “ _Willy!_ ” 

It was sweet that he cared so much, Willy thought. But this was starting to become embarrassing. He flashed a reassuring smile towards the halfborn - hopefully he didn’t have any blood on his lips when he did so. But Willy’s smile evaporated when he felt a hot fetid wind at his back, accompanied by a low whistle, like someone squeezing the air out of a balloon cuttlefish.

_Don’t turn around - that’s just what he wants you to do._ Fiore, however did turn around. The serval let out a yowl like nothing he’d ever heard before, not even when he had accidentally stepped on her tail. The serval sprang into the air, and Willy spun to grab at her as the giant mouth crashed down around him, plunging them into darkness.

 


	13. In Which a Crow Spreads Its Wings

“ _Will!_ ”

Sorren’s cry of anguish reverberated through the cavern. The halfborn strained against his bonds. With a tearing noise the frayed ropes ripped apart. The magic that sang discordantly in his blood began to scream. His head throbbed. He tried to tamp down on it, but his human flesh could no longer contain the volatile energy. It burst from his skin, - talons, and feathers. There was an agonizing twist in his back, as every muscle contracted violently. The halfborn cried out in pain, as the hot, tight sensation of horror lanced his belly at the sight of Willy being devoured. Every nerve was thrumming with pain, but it was nothing compared to that shock.

In the back of his mind Muzu was calling to him, struggling to hold him, but the crow felt far away. Sorren let out a fresh cry, blind to the danger before him. His only thought was to tear the monster apart anyway he could.

With a working of the throat the drake lifted it’s head up, and threw it back, swallowing Willy and Fiore. At least, that seemed to have been the intent.

“W-Will?” The twisted knot inside of Sorren deflated almost as quickly as it had arrived. There on the ground sat Willy, whole and hale, trying to pull the frightened Fiore off his beard and having no success. Sorren glanced up at the undead drake to see the flap of skin supporting the mandible had rotted away, leaving a gaping hole where the jaw would be, which Willy and Fiore had neatly passed through.

Oh.

A rush of relief seized Sorren, and he felt dizzy. His muscles unclenched, feeling shattered. He struggled to maintain his feet; emotion swept through his body, churning the magic there, cooling and focusing it. Before he could stop himself, he had crossed the cavern and had his big glass smith wrapped in his arms, and a mouthful of serval hair in his mouth, but Sorren didn’t care.

Willy returned the hug, huffing, “Sorren you ruined the shirt I bought you. Again.”

“I’m sorry, Will.”

“Eh, I s’pose it’s all right.” Willy squeezed him tighter, and Sorren’s back creaked in protest. Fiore, caught between them struggled. She would not hold for this outpouring of emotion. But Muzu would. The crow flew around to perch on Willy’s head. He spread his wings out over the group of them and cooed. Fiore swiped a free paw at him.

It was silly - of course Willy was alright - he was  _Willy_ after all. But Sorren’s nerves still felt jangled. For a moment he had actually thought… He shook himself. “I’m sorry I lied to you about this trip,” he told Willy. “Next time,why don’t you pick where we go.”

Willy’s eyes lit up. “Someplace with those drinks with the little umbrellas?”

“And pancakes.”

Willy gave a squeal of manly delight. The drake’s head whipped around then. A soft growl started to rise from the depths of it’s empty cavities. It was stalking the edge of the cavern, feeling it’s way around in it’s quest to recover the iron that had been stolen from it’s hoard.

“I hate to say it, but put the pancakes on the backburner for now. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.” Sorren groaned, but Willy just grinned at him. He grabbed Sorren by the wrist and leapt out of the way just as the drake swiped deadly talons over the place they were standing. Drakes in general were temperamental about people tramping through their belongings, and being dead seemed to have not changed that fact. If not for the beast’s lack of senses, they would’ve all been pounded into a pulp, Sorren was sure.

“By the way,” Willy panted, as they reached one of the cavern’s walls, “you’re molting.” The man spat out a feather.

“And you’re bleeding.” Sorren ripped a strip from his ruined shirt, and quickly wrapped it around Willy’s injured hand. “Stupid,” he muttered angrily, struggling with his own bandages. It was unclear whether he meant the word for himself, Willy, or something else entirely.

Willy looked abashed. “Between the two of us, we’ll not have a hand to spare, by the end of this.” He looked around. “Where’s Fiore?” They looked to see a streak of magenta near the wall. Fiore was pawing at something behind the rock. Peering closer, Sorren saw two silver eyes gazing out of the gloom at him. “It’s Moritz!” Willy cried. He raced to where the dire wolf was trapped, Sorren following quickly, if stiffly. His joints still ached and thrummed with magic - only Willy’s safety was keeping his mind focused.

“Good work, Fiore.” The serval looked smug at the praise. Willy stooped to observe Moritz’s predicament. The dire had a paw trapped between two rocks. No doubt all the rocks being knocked loose by the drake’s emergence had fallen and trapped her. Without thinking Willy reached a hand out to calm the wolf. Moritz pinned her ears back, and pulled away.

“Calm down, girl,” Willy soothed. Sorren took up a defensive position, keeping eyes on the bone drake, who seemed intent on finding a way out. It slammed its head against the walls, clawing at the boulders, knocking them loose. Willy continued to speak soothingly, while the drake crashed around the cavern. “Yer master up and leave ye here, eh? Well, he probably thought you were right behind him, and wasn’t just being a big jerk-butt.” Muzu fluttered on to Sorren’s shoulder, lending him strength.

“Duck!” Sorren yelled, and hit the deck as a wing swung overhead, nearly taking off his neck. Willy had flattened himself to the ground. Problem was, the drake took up nearly the entirety of the cavern - even if it’s only priority was getting the waffle iron, they would soon be crushed in the beast’s escape efforts.

“Will, once you get her free, I’ll distract the drake so you can get out of here, and find that iron.”

Willy frowned. He looked like he wanted to argue, but then stopped. “Just don’t forget to do some escaping yerself.” With a grunt Willy put his back against the rock holding Moritz and pushed. The dark wolf leapt free as the stone rolled off her paw, dancing away on three legs.

Sorren went to move away when Willy grabbed his hand. “Wait! Ye might need this, pretty bird.” Sorren felt something cool and smooth press into his palm. When he drew his hand away from Willy’s he looked down to see a gleaming basilisk’s fang.

Before he could say anything, Willy gave him a broad wink and turned to the animals. “Let’s go, girls!” Moritz struggled a bit, but diligently followed after the serval and Willy.

Pocketing the fang, Sorren stretched, feeling a slight twinge in his spine. Muzu sat heavy and familiar on his shoulder. The crow wouldn’t leave him, clinging to Sorren’s consciousness and holding him fast in the tide of magic that swept through him.

_Focus._

Channeling the magic of his trueborn heritage, Sorren leapt onto the nearest boulder, higher than he could imagine jumping without magic. He leapt to the next one, dodging the swinging tail of the drake as it spun. He dove as the appendage slammed into the stone above his head. Exploding chunks of limestone showered him and Muzu.

Sorren looked up. The rivets in the stone provided the perfect handholds. Without wasting time, he scrambled up them, getting above the drake’s skull. Pausing to catch his breath, he saw the drake had gone back to the exit, and was desperately trying to dig it’s way out. The rocks over its head groaned, threatening to cave in on them all. He needed to get the thing’s attention. His mind ran through all that he knew about drakes. They were hoarders, and stealing an object from said hoard was most often a death sentence. The only thing that might distract it…

“Muzu - fetch me one those sparklers.” The crow cawed in delight. He’d been eyeing those shinnies since they came in - normally Sorren tried to discourage his tendencies to magpie. And now he was being told to steal? It must’ve been his lucky day!

He lit off Sorren’s shoulder, diving between lashes of wing and tail to the water below. Muzu eyed the pickings. There was glittering sea glass, giant gemstones, swords of quartz and steel, golden bracelets, tiny statues, and metal flowers. It was a crow’s dream. Finally he decided on a heavy jeweled necklace. He slipped his claws around the chain and hefted it, slowly rising.

Sorren didn’t wait for Muzu’s return. While the drake was occupied, he launched himself out over the broad back.

He remembered how it felt sharing Muzu’s body, the whisper of the wind as it stirred the primary feathers in flight. The feel of falling, of adjusting your angle with the barest change of movement.

_Focus._

Suddenly the uncovered vertebrae of the drake was rising up to meet him. Sorren slammed into them, the spine digging into his stomach as he scrabbled for purchase. The beast seemed oblivious to it’s new hitchhiker, still trying to force it’s way into the tunnel. Sorren scrambled up the bones and onto the neck like a powder monkey climbing the ratlines of a ship.

At the top of the cervical vertebra, where the skull sat, Sorren flipped over to grab the lower mandible. The sudden weight caused the drake’s jaw to fall open, and gained its quick attention. The undead drake shook its head back and forth, jaw waggling on slack tendons, trying to dispel Sorren. Its mouth open, Sorren was treated to a sight of it’s dark maw. The flesh of the jaw may have rotted to nothing, but that pulsing throat was still more or less intact, and wide enough to swallow him down in a single gulp.

He looked down for a moment to catch sight of Willy, Fiore and Moritz, taking the opportunity to rush for the safety of the tunnel. He was relived to see them disappear out of sight and reach of the enormous monster, but that left him in a rather perilous situation.

Now that he had the creature’s attention, Sorren grabbed hold of a tooth, and hoisted himself up, the corroded enamel threatening to slip from his grip. He swung himself up to land on the drake’s snout. He stared down those empty, fathomless voids where a soul should’ve been looking out of. The nothing of it unnerved him - it seemed as if the drake were staring into him, he couldn’t look away.

A sharp caw brought his attention above. Muzu circled, something glinting in his claws. He let it go. The bright necklace tumbled through the air towards him. Sorren leapt up to catch it, just as the drake tilted it’s head back.

Sorren snatched the glittering gold necklace and held it aloft. “Is this what you’re after?”

The great cavernous nostrils sucked in the scent with enough force to upend Sorren, who slipped and found himself tumbling towards those two black holes. Surely they would suck him in and devour him. He wasn’t sure how, but there was a malice in that darkness that demanded blood for the cost of a trinket.

The beast reared up to its full height, taking a snap at Muzu as it lifted its heavy wings off the ground. It missed, and crashed back down. The whole hillside shuddered at the impact. Muzu flew in circles above it’s head. Every caw produced a violent jerk to the left or right of the skull. Sorren was left desperately trying to hang on. The beast struck forward, again and again; and again and again, the crow flew away free and screeching taunts.

With a massive effort the drake pushed off with it’s bat-like wings, and held itself upright on it’s rear legs and tail. Bellowing, the beast began to beat the air mercilessly. The enormous leather wings caused a windstorm in the small space. Sorren was buffeted by the miniature gale. There was a cry of frustration. The drake beat it’s wings at the sides of the cave like a caged bird, a whirlwind gathering beneath it’s feet. It twisted it’s head upward, seeking out the heat and warmth.

A rattling shudder sent chills along the halfborn’s feathers. Sorren craned his neck to see the sunlit opening above them. The drake beat it’s wings more and more violently, what was left of it’s body trembling under the strain. Pops and creaks filled the air as old bones, and withered tendons struggled to lift upwards. The wooden hull of the ship screeched in protest. Under the barrage of movement Sorren felt his talons shake loose and he flew off the beast’s snout, tumbling end over end down the skull.

He struck the top of the creature’s skull - pain lanced through his shoulder, before he continued tumbling down the broad back. He lashed out for a handhold, feeling his talons rip through paper-thin skin. The rest of him was followed, and he found himself falling, even as the drake, against all odds, began to rise. His stomach dropped out from below, before he slammed into something hard.

A giant skull burst into the sunlight for the first time in centuries. Rocks tumbled from the hilltop as the undead clawed it’s way out of it’s mortal tomb, leaving the cavern behind. It’s wings beat the air heavily. Slowly it began to drag itself higher into the sky, revealing more of its grotesque form to the world of the living.

When its tail at last cleared the crack in the hill, it dropped back down, sinking it’s back claws into the soft stone. Rearing upright it let loose a roar, spreading tattered wings. Its breath seemed to suck all the warmth out of the sky. It was loose at last.

 


	14. In Which the Swashbuckling Commences

Sterling burst into the tunnel, waffle iron in hand, staring around him with crazed eyes. The light from the crystals revealed a path to his left, and Sterling took it. There was an earsplitting crunch of rock. The ceiling above rained debris.

The lieutenant scrambled over the rocks, as the unearthly howls of the dead drake chased after him, echoing wildly through the tunnel.

He was surprised when he stumbled out into the sunlight, staggering under the sudden glare. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust. He’d emerged near the top of the karst hill. Looking down it was a rough descent from where he stood - nothing just rocks and ferns hiding more rocks. He could see his crew below, and called out to them.

Just then a crack like one of Gerdyn’s thunderbolts ripped open the heavy silence. Sterling whirled around in time to see the hill top split, and a monstrous skeletal form birth from it. The high-pitched wheeze of wind across bone set his teeth on edge.

Sudden panic rippled through the sailors. Sterling’s mind scrambled for a command to issue. Something to inspire courage. Stand and fight! Or Know no fear! Or maybe For Honor and Glory! But for some reason everything he thought of sounded more and more insincere in his head. He opened his mouth and sucked in a deep breath.

“ _Ruuuuuuunnnn!”_

The sailors didn’t require any further encouragement. They bolted - tumbling and falling over themselves in their bid to get off the hill and into the trees as quickly as possible. It was chaos.

The sight of the massive skeleton launching itself into the air burned itself into Sterling’s brain. His stomach dropped as if he’d just scarfed down a few rocks.  _Cicero is going to kill me. And then probably maroon me._

Sterling hardly had time to bemoan his sorry fate, for no sooner had the drake lifted into the air than it was plummeting towards the ground. At the last second before colliding with the earth, the wind caught hold of the tattered wings, and the creature buoyed up. The air screamed through the rents in it’s leathery flesh as it beat its wings to stabilize its flight.

The lieutenant dove off the path, just missing a hit with that skeletal tail. Sliding, skidding down the hillside in a tumble of rocks and dirt. Where the earth didn’t pummel him, the ferns smacked him as he fell past. Their slippery fronds flew out of his hands, and offered no life line as he continued to roll. The world was a smeared mess of green and brown and blue, until the hillside spit him out into a thicket.

As Luck would have it, the thicket broke his fall. But Luck, as the man was well aware is a two-faced trollop, and this particular thicket was made up chiefly of thorn bushes.

For a long moment, Sterling just lay there, dizzy and stabbed with tiny needles - funny this wasn’t so very different from that one time in the Oriental Isles. Well, aside from the giant dead thing that was chasing after him, and the heavy waffle iron in his hands. Those were a new development.

Amazingly he still held the iron, clutched in his right hand. It was a most unimpressive hunk of obsidian as ever there was, but he supposed if Cicero wanted the damn thing the Captain could have it.  _Yeah, I’ll give it to ol’ Captain Cici. Straight in that smug, stupid face._

A shiver went through Sterling at the thought of breaking in that face.  _Moritz might be right - I need to stop thinking so morbidly all the time._ But damn it all, Cicero. Shaking off the thoughts, he refocused his energy into extracting himself from the thorns. A slow and painful process if ever there was one.

Bloodied and bruised, Sterling staggered into the jungle, grappling with vines and branches. He had to find a sleipnir and ride it to the coast - he could signal the ship from there and get aid. He hoped his crew would find shelter in the meantime.

The jungle here was thicker than a wolfkin’s pit hair. Sterling struggled to make his way through it, but it seemed determined to hamper his progress. Frustrated and tired, he growled and swung the iron. He hadn’t actually expected it to do much of anything, but the living plants seemed to rush out of the waffle iron’s way - as much as a plant could rush at least. The vines recoiled at it’s touch, pulling themselves into tight knots, and the leaves of the bushes strained away from it, their edges yellowing.

_Huh._ The lieutenant hefted the iron, a newfound interest lighting his eyes. “A magic iron… or magic plants..?”  _What kind of madman made a waffle iron that repels plants?_ A cold chill ran up his spine. No, he didn’t believe those superstitions about objects imbibed with evil powers - evil wasn’t a property one could just assign to an object. It was one of those silly, incorporeal abstract concepts, like love or tree stumps. Perhaps it’s creator just really had a vendetta against green vegetables. Sterling could respect that.

He swung it again, and found it surprisingly easy to do so. Despite it’s weight, it felt as balanced as a well made sword, natural in a way. Maybe it  _was_ magic, and pretty useful magic at that. He could see himself frying up a few waffles in this thing if Cicero had no mind to use it.

**~**

Willy emerged from the cave just in time to see the lieutenant take a dive off the side of the hill. The glass smith rushed to try and stop his fall, but it was too late. He winced in sympathy at each heavy hit the lieutenant took. “I can’t watch this,” he told the two animals. He covered his eyes, then quickly uncovered them once again. “Alright I lied.” Truth to tell, it was an intensely satisfying thing to watch.

“Oof! Ouch! Damn - he just keeps rolling. He’s not stopping is he? Ow! That was right on the hunkerbones. Ack! They’ll be a sunrise over the moon tomorrow, I can tell ye that.” Moritz snorted; it was hard to tell if she agreed or was offended.

Their gawking was interrupted by a cool shadow falling over them. The skeletal drake rose up behind them, blocking out the sun with it’s enormous wings.

“Let’s shake a tail, lassies!” Willy and the animals ran down the path as the huge drake flew past them. It slammed into a spire, claws digging in for purchase, before launching itself airborne yet again. It was ungainly in the air, clearly disoriented. It waved its head back and forth, trying to pinpoint it’s prey. Part of Willy was curious as to how the drake had come about. Had Thatch Gallows created it to guard his greatest weapon? Or had the drake merely found the iron and thought ‘twould make a lovely centerpiece?

Willy watched it swoop up and down like a drunken rune dragon, swerving back and forth. It was headed towards the ocean. Willy squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

Yes! It was no trick of the light - there was a ship out there! Probably the lieutenant’s. The drake’s wild careening seemed to be angling towards that direction, no doubt following the a alluring scent of that waffle iron.

Willy thought about running back into the cave to look for Sorren, but he dismissed it. _Sorren can take care of himself._ _Besides, he has Muzu, with him. He’ll find me if Sorren’s in need._ “Right, the tiny Sorren in my noggin is telling me we have to focus. We have to get that iron back from Prince Stiff-rump, and fast. Before that great beastie lays waste to this whole island.” The animals stared at him, unblinking. “Stop it. Stop that lookin’ like you don’t understand a word I’m sayin’. Ye’ll give me a complex. C’mon!”

Willy and Fiore spilled down the hill, Moritz close behind. At the bottom of the hill they caught up with the sailors, just as they reached the sleipnir. The crew were in such a panic they hardly noticed Willy as he stole over to Raylene. The herd could smell the drake’s death scent in the air. They whinnied nervously, stamping their hooves. On the sleipnir’s back was the saddle bags, and luck of lucks - the frying pan. Willy snatched it up without hesitation.

He pulled himself into Raylene’s saddle. Hoisting the frying pan overhead, he bellowed out to the sailors. “Stay your fears, fellows! The drake isn’t after you!” He pointed his pan skyward, as the sailors turned to face this crazy man on the bright pink sleipnir. “And honestly, a big undead angry drake is the least of our problems. I need to find your lieutenant. The rest of ye, get to yer ship as fast as yer shanks’ll carry ye.” He pointed east. “Ouider -” the wolfkin blinked up at him, “take the crew and head east by south east. I spied a river there. Follow it. It should take ye to the coast.”

Ouider gave a curt nod. “You heard him, ye cullys! Unpack those sleipnir and mount up.”

“Oy - if I had wanted to subject my hinters to such punishment, I’d have signed on with the bloody calvary. How do you, uh… get on one these things?”

Hamir growled and bristled. Willy shivered, and tried to put her from his mind. Surely Ouider could keep her on track. He looked down at Moritz. “Think you could track your mislaid master?” The dire wolf sneezed, before taking off at a steady lope, which Willy took as affirmative.

Willy held Raylene just long enough for Fiore to leap onto the stallion’s back, and then he put his heels to the animal’s sides. Raylene surged forward after the dire wolf.

Moritz zig zagged through the trees, favoring her bad paw, but otherwise moving well. She was intent on her job, nose raised to scent the wind for the lieutenant. Above them, the sky occasionally would darken suddenly as the undead drake winged overhead, searching for the same quarry.

Lieutenant Roscoe had covered an impressive amount of distance for a man who had fallen several meters down a cliff side, and was lugging a heavy metal piece of ancient evil. Maybe he was as lucky as Oudier had told him. That said, he did have a giant skeleton monster drake chasing after him currently, so that luck was probably relative.

Suddenly Mortiz’s head came up and she let out a soft  _woof._ Willy slowed Raylene, and followed the dire’s gaze, to see a dark shape zigzagging through the foliage. “Roscoe! Stop!”

Either the man didn’t hear him, or he chose to ignore him. Willy kicked Raylene and the sleipnir crashed through the underbrush in pursuit. Above them the canopy trembled as the drake roared in frustration. It could no doubt sense the evil magic of the waffle iron, but the trees stymied its lunges. Leaves and twigs rained down on them as the wings tore into the canopy. Raylene whinnied and shied. Willy struggled to keep the sleipnir running straight.

Willy decided to forgo formalities. As soon as Raylene drew even with the lieutenant, the glass smith launched off. He tackled the man from the sleipnir’s back. The force knocked the two of them rolling. Willy felt the ground beneath them slope downward. They tumbled down into a shallow ditch with a stream at the bottom. The waffle iron went bouncing off a rock to land in the water. It hummed with malice.

With surprising speed, the lieutenant flipped around and kicked free of his larger assailant. “Are you mad?!” Willy saw him make a lunge for the waffle iron. He surged after him; shoving, clawing, pulling - anything to stop him from reaching the cold hunk of obsidian that lay just out of reach.

They grappled like a pair of lovestruck basilisks. Roscoe wriggled in a desperate bid to escape Willy as the glass smith latched onto his legs. The man in his grip flailed and tried to drag himself closer to the iron. Willy gritted his teeth and pulled him backwards.

“Let go of me, you thieving rat sack!”

“I don’t like this any mor’n you do,” Willy grunted. “Just - stop - wiggling-” _Oof!_ “Would ye let the iron alone, and let’s - settle - this - like - _men_!”

With a snarl, Roscoe kicked out, catching Willy in the ribs. The glass smith crumpled in on himself with a groan. Swiftly the lieutenant gained his feet. He snatched up the waffle iron, holding it aloft in triumph, his face alight with victory. “Ha ha!”

It was then that Willy leapt to his own feet. “Ha  _ha_ !” he crowed, leveling the lieutenant’s sword at him.

Roscoe blinked. For a long moment he stood, chest heaving, just looking at the sword, as if it were a liger Willy had pulled out of his hat. He glanced down at his empty scabbard and frowned in bemusment. “ _Ya!_ ” Willy lashed forward with the blade. He didn’t intend to hurt the man, just rap the hilt across his knuckles. To his utter surprise, at the last second Roscoe whipped the waffle iron upwards. A loud  _ping_ echoed off the rock walls of the dale.

Willy frowned. He swung again. This time, he meant to strike the vile creation straight out of the lieutenant’s hands. Roscoe caught the blow just as easily. Willy grunted. C’mon, this was a  _waffle iron_ . There was no possible way the lieutenant was quick enough to fend off his attacks with the bloody thing. But as Willy thrust and slashed, that was just what the man did, catching each blow, and repelling it. Looking into his opponent’s face, Willy could see his own shock mirrored. Then shock gave way to a gleeful smirk on the long face, and the lieutenant switched from defense to offense.

Roscoe slammed the iron into the blade, sending a jolt straight up Willy’s arm. Pain bloomed across his shoulder, and into his jaw. The glass smith hopped backwards, out of range, hissing like a serval. “That thing is  _evil._ ” He could see it in the man’s expression - he’d seen him with a winning hand at cards; he hadn’t had nearly the same look of sinister triumph on his face then.

Roscoe raised an eyebrow. “ _Eviiillll…_ ” Willy spat. He didn’t want to waste his strength hammering away at a magical waffle iron - there wasn’t a single scratch or dent on it, even after the attacks. The only mar on it’s surface was that ugly red scar from centuries past. Before he could decide on his next action, Roscoe twirled the iron as if it weighed no more than a feather, and leapt forward, battering at the blade. The unexpected blow tore the sword from Willy’s hands.

Willy yelped and ducked as Roscoe swung at him. “You are enjoying this a little too much, mate!” Willy scrambled backwards as the man charged again. Something bumped against his back - it was Raylene! Willy felt along the saddle, and his hand found the warm metal handle.

With a rousing battle cry, Willy flung the frying pan around. Pan and iron hit with a colossal  _crack_ . The very air seemed to split where they met. Willy felt the blow surge into his arm, the force strong enough to rattle the teeth in his skull.

Willy took a step forward, gaining lost ground, and took another swing. This, Roscoe caught, letting the pan slide across the iron with a spine-tingling screech of metal.

Now this was more like it! Roscoe was taken aback, as Willy can at him with several fast blows, testing out his new weapon. The lieutenant was just barely able to keep up with the flurry of jabs.

Across from him, Roscoe growled. “So you know, this is the most idiotic situation I’ve found myself in my entire life.”

Willy laughed. “Ha! I think I heard your mother say that on her wedding night.”

Roscoe’s eyes flared hot with anger, and he charged recklessly at the glass smith.

Willy lunged forward, throwing himself into the fight. Roscoe stumbled and almost didn’t raise the iron in time to parry the attack. A series of furious blows rang out.

Their breath grew heavy as they dueled. Neither was willing to give ground. Iron and pan sang their battle hymns, the notes of their heated war reverberating through the jungle, and scaring every living thing within a ten mile radius.

Which left only one thing in the area.

A gust of wind knocked them both flat to the ground. Giant wings sliced through trees, showering them in a storm of leaves. The earth trembled as the drake crashed down behind them, one foot on either slope, straddling the dale. It held itself upright on it’s spindly wings, screaming it’s tremulous screech.

Over the death-rattle Willy could hear Raylene’s screams of terror, and the pounding of hooves as he took off. Fiore yowled. And above all that, Willy could hear a savage snarling. Willy lifted his head to see Moritz. The dire wolf looked like she’d been rolling around the Ancient of Lightning’s rug, her fur was so fluffed up.

The drake charged the lieutenant. Roscoe whirled, iron held out defensively, looking like an even bigger idiot than usual. Willy surged to his feet. If he ran he could probably catch up with Raylene.

“Come on then, you bag of bones!” The lieutenant laughed at the drake as it crashed towards him, ripping the ditch apart with its wing tips.

Time seemed to slow around Willy. For a long moment he considered whether or not he wanted to watch the lieutenant be devoured. On the one hand it might be awesome to watch him try to take on a sixty foot drake with nothing but a waffle iron, but on the other, he didn’t want to stick around for dessert.

Before he could decide, Moritz suddenly bolted past him. He made a grab for her, but missed. He watched as the dire wolf ran towards Roscoe. With one flying leap she launched herself at her master.

And sank her teeth into his tender hinter regions. The lieutenant let out a howl that would put a dire wolf to shame. Willy hissed in sympathy.  _I am glad fer bein’ a serval person._

The iron flew from his hand to clatter at the feet of the drake.

The man staggered, cursing up a storm that would’ve made Willy’s own mother blush to hear it. He seemed dazed, as Moritz kept her grip on his trousers and tugged backwards, dragging him out of danger. The drake thundered closer, teeth parting in preparation to strike. The poor dumb clod didn’t seem to have his head about him. He stumbled backwards. The zombified drake opened it’s jaws and let forth a growl, and that, at last, seemed to shock the man into action.

The bold and noble lieutenant promptly let out a squeak that would’ve embarrassed a chillawing. He promptly stopped hopping about and spun around to run in the other direction. With a rattling sound that might have been a chuckle, the drake surged after him.

_Don’t laugh,_ Willy told himself. This is a very serious situation. This is not funny.  _It is not._

Okay, it was sort of funny. Ob’s bobs, even with a sore pair of cheeks, the knob could certainly run.

And it provided the perfect distraction. Willy dodged past the rampaging drake, and ran towards the discarded waffle iron. Moritz reached it first. The dire wolf scooped it up into her jaws, and stood with it, growling. Her eyes darted between Willy and the lieutenant. “Here doggy! Nice doggy!” Willy whistled to her. “Bring it to Uncle Willy! ‘Atta girl!” The wolf began trotting over to Willy.

“Moritz!” The lieutenant’s voice cracked as he screeched at her. “I forbid you! _Stop_ \- doing - the -thing - you’re - fixing - to - _do_!” her master panted out as he ran past. He dove behind a boulder, just as the drake crashed its snout on it. “Don’t-” Moritz gave him a look of exasperation, “-you-” and took another two steps towards Willy, “-dare! You…! Moritz! Come here!” The drake was snuffling around, moving it’s head back and forth, casting for a scent.

“C’mere Morrie! Uncle Willy’s gonna give you some o’ hi’ pancakes!”

“ _Mor_ itz! I swear - if you don’t come over here in the next ten seconds -”

They never did find out what would happen in the next ten seconds. The drake had by this time lost interest in the whiny-voiced lieutenant and its attention snapped back onto the waffle iron dangling from the dire wolf’s jaws.

Before Moritz could react, the drake was on her, screaming it’s bone-chilling scream.

“Dumb wolf!” The lieutenant pushed off the boulder. He ran towards the drake, snarling defiantly. Suddenly his leg shot out on the wet pebbles, and he disappeared under its belly. The drake stomped and twisted, trying to reach the idiot lieutenant and his wolf huddled beneath the barrel of it’s wooden chest.

Willy slapped a hand to his temple. “Oh, for the love of -” _He really is a madman,_ Willy concluded. Hand to hat, he ran into the fray. Roscoe be damned - someone had to save the poor wolf, at least.

Roscoe had one arm around Moritz; the wolf struggling to get loose of him. A flailing paw hit him in the eye. “I’m trying to  _save_ you, stupid wolf!” Moritz still held firm to the waffle iron, nearly braining her bonded in the head with it. Roscoe ducked, and Moritz tried to leap free. The lieutenant grabbed her by the injured paw, and the dire wolf let out a yelp of pain, dropping the iron.

Startled, the man dropped her, and Moritz darted out from under the drake just as Willy dove under the drake’s wing. The glass smith grabbed hold the lieutenant’s collar, pulling him free just in time to avoid the crushing stomp of a giant clawed foot. Willy pulled him down into a crevice between two rocks. The drake’s snout followed after them, slamming against the rocks above them. The monster drove it’s wings downward, pushing itself up off the ground, to plant it’s taloned feet on the rock. It studied them, reaching with it’s wing spike for the iron that Roscoe had snatched from the ground and now clutched to his chest.

“Really?” Willy demanded. He was starting to get tired of seeing that iron everywhere.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve had to miss my breakfast two days in a row now, thanks to you. _I am making myself an ancients’-curst waffle if it kills me_!”

The drake’s cold, stinking breath forced them back further into the tiny space. “Ye don’t know how close ye are to the truth, Stuffypants.” Willy shoved against the lieutenant trying to keep the iron between them. He wasn’t sure what it’d do to him if he touched it, but he didn’t want to find out.

The drake tried turning its head to wedge its snout into the crevice. _Now I know what a worm feels like cornered by Muzu,_ Willy thought to himself, as he tried to flatten himself further into the tight space. He didn’t envy the poor worms. The wings’ talons scraped on the sides of the rock, straining to snatch on something. He glanced around desperately for an escape route. “Ob’s bobs,” Willy hissed at the lieutenant, “ye’re more bony than the Gravekeeper’s doorknobs - gir yer elbow orff my eye!” 

“I’ll give you one in the eye,” Roscoe muttered darkly. “Stop pushing me towards that damn thing.”

“Give it back the evil waffle iron!”

“Are you crazy?! You want me to just give over my only weapon to a giant, brainless, half-dead skeleton drake?”

The drake in question snapped greedily at them.

“It’s not a weapon, ye cank, it’s a _waffle iron._ And y _es_!”

“You’re insane!”

“Oh, says the idiot who stole a drake’s treasure and then ran straight at the bloody thing.”

The lieutenant huffed and spluttered. “I had things well in hand! If not for  _you_ delaying me, and putting Moritz at risk -”

A familiar caw broke through the bickering. Willy slapped a hand down onto the lieutenant’s mouth to shut him up quickly. The man gave an indignant squeal, though it was muffled by his hand, so Willy didn’t really care. “Muzu?”

The drake above them reared back for another strike, and that’s when Willy saw the black streak overhead. As soon as there was an opening, Muzu dove into the crevice, narrowly avoiding the drake as it slammed its muzzle into the rock again.

The exhausted bird tumbled onto Willy’s chest. The glass smith picked the small creature up and cradled him against his breast. “If you’re here, than where’s..?”

“Willy! I’m up here!” Willy and the lieutenant looked up and around at the sound of Sorren’s voice. All Willy could see was the drake’s parted fangs looming above them, desperate to devour them.

Cold dread flooded Willy’s stomach. “ _No_ … Sorren! Ye’ve been eaten alive! I knew this would happen someday - you were always too delicious for yer own good. But to be eaten by something that don’t even have the tongue to appreciate it - oh, Sorren…” he moaned.

“Willy…”

“Oh, stuff it already,” Roscoe growled. He grabbed Willy’s chin and tilted it upwards, giving Willy a view of the drake’s makeshift ribcage.

Willy gasped. “How’d you get up there Sorren?” There was the halfborn, whole and hale, and undigested. Well, mostly. Sorren was dangling from the spine of one of the huge vertebrae, wedged between two of the planks forming the hull of the drake’s ribcage. He looked a little windblown, and his face was streaked with something Willy didn’t care to think about, but he was alive - if trapped inside a giant drake’s rib cage.

Willy was so overjoyed he wanted to kiss him. That being impossible, he planted several large smooches on Muzu’s precious head.

Roscoe did his best to shimmy away, eager to avoid the tide of affections. When Willy turned to him, a feather stuck on his lip, the lieutenant raised his iron to fend off an attack.

“You draw the beastie off - I’ll rescue Sorren.”

Roscoe’s eyes flashed. “Why should I help you?”

The drake struck out again, it’s fangs scraping against the rock, in a teeth-jarringly screech.

“Ye don’t exactly have a whole lot of options here, mate.” If there was any room in this corner Willy would’ve slapped some sense into him, but all he could do was talk. “Call yer dire wolf - she can help.”

“Moritz? She won’t listen to me!”

“Have you tried bribing her with sausage?”

“No, I mean I can’t contact her at all. I can’t…” Roscoe struggled for the right word. Willy watched as the man slapped a hand to his head in frustration.

Willy scowled. “I bet it’s the damn iron,” he snarled. “I  _knew_ it was evil.”

“Small minded, aren’t you? A _thing_ can’t possibly be evil.”

“Why is it glowing red?”

“I don’t know - I didn’t create the blasted thing. Why are _you_ red?” He poked at Willy’s beard. The smith bristled, ready to strike the lieutenant.”

Sorren sighed overhead. “It’s a bit late to be arguing metaphysics, don’t you think? Give the drake back the iron!”

“ _No!”_ Willy was shocked by the sudden vehemence that transformed the lieutenant’s face into a snarl. “There’s no proof the drake will let us live if I give up the iron. At least with it, we might stand a chance of beating it.” Well, Willy couldn’t exactly argue with that. Roscoe breathed out hard, a nasty glint to his eye that Willy was certain hadn’t been there before. “I don’t know what it is, but it has some sort of power. And it seems to me, that it’s only growing. It sounds ridiculous, but I think it could take out a hundred drakes, if I could only figure out how it works. Imagine that. Taking out a whole brigade of dragoons with a waffle iron? And then go out for breakfast.” He laughed as the drake tried to wedge it’s jaws into the crevice. “Wouldn’t that just be the end-all, back at Alabaster?”

This didn’t sound like the same lieutenant who had gambled with him. Willy wished Sorren was here - he knew how to deal with magic. Well, he was here, but it would be hard to ask his advice while he was currently engaged in trying to hold onto the side of a giant zombie drake as it hopped up and down on the rocks. Willy took a breath, and opted for a gentler approach. “Ye’ve obviously got some deep-seated issues you need to work through with a professional. But ye don’t need a weapon. Ye’re no warrior, and certainly ye’re not vicious.” Roscoe flinched, as if Willy had just zapped him. “Hell, ye wouldn’t let Moritz be eaten for all she bit ye on yer -”

“I’m aware of where the bite occurred.” Roscoe shifted uncomfortably. “Stop trying your blather out on me. You don’t know what I am, and what I’m not.”

“I know right well what ye are. Ye’re just like me -”

Roscoe squinted at him. “No, I’m not.”

“Alright, ye’re not. Ye’re right. I was just trying to appeal to yer better nature.”

“Ha! Jokes on you, then!”

“I’m still stuck up here,” Sorren’s voice dripped down to them over the sound of the drake gnawing on stone. Sparks flew up where his teeth drew across the stone. “But no, it’s fine. You two work out your differences. I’ll just… hang out here.”

“There’s no need for unwarranted paronomasia,” Roscoe scoffed.

“Sorren gets kinda sassy when he hasn’t eaten.” Eaten... Ah! Willy had an idea strike him. He patted his coat, seeking out the pocket with the vial of oil. “Do you have a light on you?” he asked the lieutenant.

The lieutenant gave him a strange look. He patted his jacket and came up empty. He looked around, then lifted the waffle iron and scraped it against the rock. The sound it produced set Willy’s teeth on edge, but several sparks came flying from the iron. It left a blackened smear on the rocks.

Willy worked quickly, drawing out the bottle of oil. Roscoe watched as Willy ripped the sleeve of his shirt with his teeth, and tore off a long strip. He tamped this down the vial, coating the cloth.

“What are you doing?”

Willy grunted a reply. “We can’t very make pancakes if we’re stuck here, now can we?” He was already regretting what he was about to do, but hopefully there would be more oil. He tied off the bottle and looked up at Sorren. “Better close yer eyes for this, luv.” The halfborn obeyed. Willy waited until the great beast wedged it’s head between the rock, growling. Willy nodded to Roscoe, who struck the pan against the rock face again. Bright sparks poured off the iron, and onto the bottle, nearly catching Willy’s hand. Without hesitation the glass smith chucked the flaming vial at the drake’s skull.

_Fwwosh_ ! The vial shattered. A fireball erupted across the drake’s face. The monster reared back in surprise. “Go!” Roscoe and Willy clambered out of the crevice. The drake shook its head wildly, showering the ground with drops of flaming oil.

Of course as soon as it caught scent of the waffle iron, the drake’s flaming skull whipped around towards the lieutenant. “ _Yipe_ !”

“Good job, lieutenant - keep ‘em distracted!” Willy called out as the lieutenant flew past him, the drake following like a loyal dog - if that dog was also on fire. Willy dove for the frying pan where he’d dropped it. It was a bit dirty, but no worse for wear. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire, heh?” He leapt at the beast’s tail as it whipped past, grabbing on one handed and hoisting himself up.

The drake’s vertebrae were like a ladder swaying in a heavy wind, held together with metal cables, rope, and muscle. Enough of the musculature and tendons remained to hold it together, but the skin along it’s back had torn, the spines of the individual bones piercing through it like daggers. The drake paid no mind to the man crawling up it’s back, instead focusing on snapping at Roscoe who held it at bay by wildly swinging the waffle iron at it’s snout.  _So much for taking out a whole brigade of dragoons._ And yet as soon as he thought it, he considered retracting it, as the lieutenant was not dead yet. Man and drake danced back and forth, one would gain ground, and then be driven back by the other. Teeth rasped against obsidian.

The glass smith carefully pulled himself along the the drake’s back, instantly taking back his earlier assessment of riding the creature. The bare spines rendered it a bad place to settle one’s seat. “This is one place ye don’t want to test yer manhood…” he muttered, double checking each foot hold, the spines tickling his underside.

“Huh. Never thought I’d find the cage that could hold ye, pretty bird.” Willy hove to near to where Sorren was dangling. The pretty bird snorted. There was a break in the flap of muscle over the back where Sorren had fallen in. He looked up through it at Willy now, hands braced on the wooden ribs of the ship slung beneath. Willy hefted his pan and studied the heaving vertebra beneath him. When the beast flexed he could just see into the space between the connecting bones. He looked around for some sort of weak point he could attack. There! A crack in one of the ribs.

He breathed out, timing it in his head. Then, as the drake drew itself in to launch another attack on the lieutenant, Willy raised his pan and came down hard on the rib.

Nothing gave, and Willy gave a grunt of frustration. Surely there had to be a better way?

“Will! Here!” Sorren reached up to pass the basilisk fang to Willy. When next the drake paused in it’s fight, Willy plunged the fang into the cracked rib. He hefted his pan. With a wild cry he brought it down hard on the makeshift wedge.

The tooth shattered on impact, and the rib’s crack widened. Another blow broke off a shower of bone chips. The drake lunged, and Willy toppled over. He felt the bone crack and give way underneath him. Sorren leapt for him just as the drake skidded into a spin.

Willy was jerked forward, falling off the drake into a pile of what would’ve usually been guts, but thankfully seemed only to be a pile of dust-that-used-to-be-guts. And Sorren, who’d fallen out of the ribcage when the rib had sheared off. Specifically Willy appeared to have landed on top of him, which would explain why the landing had been so soft.

“Hey Sorren. I saved ya.”

A groan issued from underneath him. “My hero.”

Before congratulations could be doled out to the conquering hero, a sharp cry made them look around. The lieutenant had clambered his way free of the ditch, the skeletal drake in pursuit, no worse for missing a rib. It pulled itself forward on it’s wing tips, clawing it’s way into the jungle. Roscoe had remarkably managed to dodge it, still clinging tightly to the waffle iron. It seemed a blur in his hands as he swung it around him, driving the foliage back with it’s awful presence, only for it to be crushed in the charge of the drake. Willy couldn’t sense anything from the iron, but he could feel Sorren trembling at the sight of it.

Willy yanked Sorren to his feet, and began running towards the lieutenant, fully intending to take him out with a swift frying pan to the skull. He got about halfway before a furry blue rock came alive beneath his feet. Moritz twisted around to escape as Willy went sprawling into the dirt.

Roscoe took the opportunity to turn and flee, diving into the thick underbrush where the drake couldn’t reach after.

Stymied by the dense brambles, the drake cast about, looking around for what had denied it it’s victory - or smelling around rather; Willy was pretty convinced the thing couldn’t see. It tried to force itself through two thick tree trunks, but couldn’t fit, and flailed around helplessly.

“Are you hurt?” Sorren asked, helping Willy to stand.

“Aye, I’m fine. And I wish the lieutenant the joy of his new acquisition.” Sorren dusted off his coat - it did little good, the fabric was still encrusted with egg and dirt and bright green stains, and now a lovely layer of drake dust. Sorren tutted. Willy read his mind. “Ye’re right, we must go after that peery waffler before he brings that drake down on the ship, and leaves us all stranded here.”

As if on cue, the drake in question pulled itself out of the trunks, ribs creaking with the strain. With a roar of frustration, it rocked back on its heels and launched itself into the air. Willy and Sorren retreated to the jungle to watch it struggle, crashing twice before it managed to get the wind under it. The air whistled through its ribcage as it hoisted itself over the trees with laborious beats of the massive wings.

“Say Sorren - why didn’t Boney there burst into flame like the other ones? I thought for sure that would at least knock ‘em for a loop.”

“It’s been sitting in that water for who knows how long; decomposing. I imagine there’s not enough fat or anything to get a good flame going.”

“All skin and bones, eh?” Willy chuckled to himself.

“Hmm. I have an idea. Think we can catch up with the lieutenant?”

“Well,” Willy surveyed the trail of damage the lieutenant had left in his escape, “I doubt that should prove too troublesome.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may've wrote this entire story just for this scene - the scene of two guys squaring off with iron and pan, the ultimate final confrontation. Will Roscoe be overcome by the iron's dark powers? Will the drake destroy the ship and everyone on it? Will our heroes be able to save the day? Will Willy ever get his pancakes? Tune in next time to find out.


	15. In Which There is An Abundant Imbibement of Spirits

Willy led the charge through the jungle, following the roars of the angry drake, and the green carnage left by the lieutenant. They burst through the leaves and onto a sandy river bank, the sudden rush of sunlight nearly blinding them. Sorren had to grab Willy to keep him from falling into the fast moving water.

Roscoe was already there, bent over to catch his breath. “Why didn’t-” huff, “Cicero-” puff, “-drop us off-” cough, “at the river-,” pant, “-to begin with?” Sorren eyed him like a liger sizing up a wounded elkrin, trying to judge if he would be able to wrestle the iron away from him. Something in his blood warned him against touching it though, so he held back. Moritz, likewise held back from her bonded.

“Look there! Ahoy!” Willy doffed his hat and waved it to the group of sailors from Roscoe’s expedition. They were on the other side of the river, and reined in their sleipnir to stare at the new arrivals.

Roscoe scanned the sky above them, searching for the drake. He pulled away from the group, Sorren matching his step. “What is it with you, damned-eye? What do you want?” Sorren paused at the insult, fixing the man in his two-toned gaze. The officer fidgeted under the glare, raising the iron as if to fend off an attack. The air seemed charged with electricity; the hairs on the back of Sorren’s arms lifted.

Just then, the jungle foliage quaked in its roots, and a host of rune dragons set up a terrified screeching. Roscoe didn’t wait around as a large dark form shot out from the foliage, and down the barrel of open sky above the river. The sound of wind whistling over bones pierced the air.

Roscoe took off, floundering across the river, trailing Sorren, Willy and Moritz in his wake. The shadow of the drake passed, and it pulled away to circle again and come at a better angle.

The appearance of the drake had caused a panic to break out amongst the sleipnir; they bucked and screamed, their voices high with terror. The crew fared no better, running for cover under the trees. Roscoe skidded into their midst, his arrival hardly noticed. His shouted orders to regroup fell on deaf ears. The poor longshanks seemed on the verge of total frustration, and Sorren felt a strange surge of pity and embarrassment at his expense. The halfborn raised two fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. The chaos around them halted. Sailors and equine looked up at them.

Sorren wasn’t exactly sure what they saw - their lieutenant, bloodied and bruised, clutching at a waffle iron like his life depended on it; Willy, looking bright-eyed, eager, and unshaven; Moritz, limping and covered in leaves and dirt. And him, with Muzu perched on his shoulder, a halfborn covered in feathers and grave dust, his hands bandaged into lumps. He was probably the most composed looking of the group, which all things considered was not very reassuring a sight.

“Fiore! There you are, old girl!” Willy broke the tension; stepping through the crowd, he opened his arms, and the fuchsia feline bounded into his hands. “Ye guided Raylene here, did ya?”

“Quiet!” Roscoe yelled at everyone, which seemed to have the exact opposite effect, with sleipnir whinnying, servals yowling, and sailors barking for everyone to hush up. “Everyone’s going to calm down, and listen. We need to get to shore and signal the ship. They’ll send a boat out to us, then -”

“Then what?” one of the sailors demanded.

“Yes, I was just about to -”

“What if that giant… _thing_ out there wrecks the boat?!”

Sorren spoke up then. “The beast is nothing but bones. If it falls in the sea it will surely sink like a stone. It won’t want to go near the water.” For a long beat every eye stared at him. Slowly the crew seemed to acknowledge and accept this explanation, and returned their attention to Roscoe as he launched into a strategy for getting everyone off the island quickly.

Willy leaned back and whispered to Sorren behind the lieutenant’s back. “Is that true Sorren?”

“I’ve no idea,” the halfborn admitted. “It sounded plausible though. ”

“So what’s the plan, mate?” Willy pressed. “How we gonna kick this stiff-rump and wrest the iron from his hands? I’m thinking I could sneak up behind him and knock ‘im flat.” He punctuated his words with a swift punch to his palm.

Roscoe’s voice faltered, and he glanced behind his back at them. “I can hear you, you numbskull!”

Willy made a face at him. “Ye always stick yer ear into others’ conversations, do ye?”

Roscoe made a sound of disgust, before yelling. “Retreat to the jungle - it’ll get caught in the vines, and we can lose it there!”

The sailors yelled in agreement. As the big drake came careening after them, the group fled into the tangled vines. “Stay together!” Sorren could hear Roscoe bellowing up ahead. The sailors were practically dragged into the forest by the panicked sleipnir. Under the shelter of the trees, the sound of the drake’s rattling roar was intensified; it seemed to bounce off every rock and tree, settling in one’s chest uncomfortably.

Sorren held back. His eye was caught by the big purple flowers that dangled from the vines. He skidded to a halt. Willy turned with a questioning look on his face.

“Go on ahead. I’ll catch up!”

Willy nodded. “Don’t be late for dinner, dear!” He took off after the crowd, disappearing in a thicket of ferns.

Sorren sprang up the vines, using them as he would a ladder. He held his breath, careful not to disturb the purple flowers with their laden anthers. He tore at the vines, gathering as much as he could hold.

As the drake came barreling through like a scalded serval, Sorren swung the vines down. Purple flowers burst across the drake’s face in a cloud of pollen dust. Sorren wasn’t exactly sure if the drug would have the same effect on the undead. He drew more vines, pulling them off the trees with a snap, and throwing them down across the great wide back. The drake shook its head, snorting great puffs of pollen. Vines caught and twisted around the delicate bones of the wings and spines. The drake stumbled; banged it’s snout on a tree. It reared back with a roar. More flowers released their pollen as the drake thrashed, casting for the scent of the iron amid the heady floral perfume.

Sorren didn’t stay to watch the struggle. Roars of frustration echoed behind him, growing fainter and fainter as he leaped from branch to branch.

When he found the party of frightened sailors clutching equally frightened sleipnir, the drake’s angry death rattle could still be heard, but far off, like peals of wizened thunder that did not draw nearer.

“Ah! And there ye are, me beauty!” Sorren looked up to find Willy, arms outspread. The halfborn didn’t normally give in to such sentimental displays, but what the hell - he’d let Willy claim the hug.

Willy’s arms did not wrap around him however, but the neck of a bright pink sleipnir, who was trying to hide his girth under Willy’s grungy coat. He hugged Raylene tightly. “Oh! Sorren! There ye are. I’d like to formally introduce ye to yer new cabin-mate!” He turned the sleipnir’s head in Sorren’s direction.

Sorren raised a questioning eyebrow. “What’s this? I thought you returned it.”

“I did! And then I won Raylene right back in a game of Rogue’s Ruff! Guess who’s getting a pony for Yuletide?!”

Sorren was shaking his head, a slow horror dawning on him. “No. No one is getting a pony.”

“But Sorren -”

“Who in his right mind would play you at Rogue’s Ruff -” As soon as he started to ask it, he knew exactly who would play Willy at Rogue’s Ruff. “Damn him.” He glared daggers into the lieutenant’s back, and hoped they stuck there.

“Might be a bit of a stiff-rump, but he sure knows how to go all in on a game of cards. Isn’t that right, Raylene?” Raylene flared his nostrils as Willy planted a kiss on the soft nose.

“You caught a whiff off those flowers didn’t you?”

“Wot? Flowers?”

Sorren shook his head. There would be time to deal with this little misfortune later. Right now, they had a bigger problem. Soon enough whatever effect the vines were having would wear off.

Sorren stalked up to the lieutenant who was in an argument with the wolfkin woman. His skin tingled as he approached the waffle iron - it was all he could do to tear his eyes away. Something like that… the Watch Crows would do well to posses it. He grabbed the man by the collar without ceremony and spun him around to face him.

“We need to do something about that drake. I have a plan -”

Roscoe pushed his hand away, pointedly brushing off where Sorren had grabbed him. “I’ve already formulated a plan. You said yourself the beast cannot float in water. Ergo - we need only reach the ship, where it cannot pursue us. Problem solved.”

“It can still fly.” He resisted the urge to shake sense into the man.

“So can cannonballs. And I can tell you from experience that they don’t get on very well with flesh and bone, whether alive or dead.”

“Listen, do you carry any spirits in this caravan?” Sorren asked him.

Shapely eyebrows arched in surprise at the change of subject. “And what sort of sailor would I be if I didn’t? But isn’t it a bit early to be drinking ourselves to Oblivion before the drake can do us the pleasure?”

“We looking to throw a party before we get eaten?” Willy asked hopefully. “Ooh! You don’t happen to have any of those little umbrella drinks still?”

Sorren growled, making the two sailors jump. “Not for you two - for the drake.”

Roscoe’s eyes nearly crossed in irritation. “Why should that ghoul have the pleasure; he’s not the one about to be eaten.”

Sorren wanted to pull out his hair. Instead he took a breath and just said. “Will.”

Willy shrugged, at a loss, but took his cue. He bellowed out to the crew. “Alright ye scurvy lot! Sorren wants yous to unload any and all spirits from the sleipnir and pile ‘em up for us to see. No holding back now. We want to see every last drop.”

The crew snapped to attention at Willy’s voice. They quickly got to work, their curiosity getting the best of them. From some trans-dimensional space in the lieutenant’s pants Roscoe drew out a wine bottle and eagerly added it to the growing pile. Sorren opted not to question it. Willy continued cooing to Raylene about what a perfect, pretty pony he was. In the distance, the drake’s roars had grown eerily silent.

Soon they had acquired a good sized pile of kegs. Sorren took a discarded cutlass and began to pry the lids off them. The sailors all watched him, bemused, as the strong scent of rum permeated the air. They lifted their noses to drink in the bouquet. Moods changed quickly when he tipped over several onto the ground. The crew began to raise rebellious voices.

Willy gave a bosun’s bark - not so much a word, as a harsh sound, that quieted them all.

“Now we just need to lure the beast to our little soriee.”

Willy, though confident in Sorren’s plans, still looked glum at the loss of so much rum. “Seems a mighty waste, Sorren.”

“It’s necessary. Now Will - I need you to lead the crew to the shore and signal the ship. We need to get out of here, in case this goes wrong.”

“Wrong?” Willy’s brow furrowed in concern.

Sorren awkwardly patted the large man’s shoulder, offering up a reassuring smile. “Nothing will go wrong. I’ll have Muzu. We’ll be along shortly.”

Willy looked unconvinced, “Just remember - you still owe me those pancakes. If you - well, I’ll be coming after ye intending to collect on that promise, so ye better be up to pay.”

Ouider heaved a heartfelt sigh at this touching exchange. Roscoe made a disgusted noise and cuffed the wolfkin on the ear, since he didn’t dare to do the same to either Willy or Sorren.“Must we bear witness to this heaving fest any longer?” As if in answer the jungle behind them rumbled, leaves rustling in the canopy as if stirred by a great wind.

Willy bent to plant a peck on Sorren’s lips, then just as quick was gone, shouting orders to the group of them. The kiss left Sorren feeling electrified;he nearly forget the last ingredient to his plan.

“Not you.” He grabbed the lieutenant by the shoulder before Roscoe could pass into the crowd. “I need you and the iron to lure the drake and keep it here.” Yellow flashed in the man’s eyes. His dire wolf leaned against his leg. “Don’t worry - you’ll be perfectly safe.”

“And yet, somehow, I don’t believe you." He shrugged. "But I’ll bite.” The iron twirled in his fingers, flashing smugly. “Not much you could do to me, in any case.”

Sorren’s eyes flickered to the iron. It radiated a strange, throbbing pulse that reached out to him, like a sore just begging to be scratched raw. Something in his blood compelled him to reach out and take it from the lieutenant. _He’d be a hero if he brought back such a weapon to be used by the Watch Crows. The secrets it might hold…_ He backed away quickly. _Think of Willy._ He wasn’t sure if he or Muzu had spoken, but he did think of him. Of playful, whiskery kisses, and brazen innuendos, and pretty pink coats with sleipnir to match, and wonderful fluffy pancakes, dripping with syrup and melted butter. The iron’s call seemed to lessen.

Taking a steadying breath, Sorren instructed the lieutenant on his role. Ripping a piece of his shirt he wrapped it around a branch. “Light this, please.” The lieutenant eyed the proffered torch with unease. Then with a shrug he struck the iron against a rock. The sparks caught on the cloth and smoke poured from the makeshift torch. “Just stay put. And when the signal comes, you run for the shore. Do not break, before that signal comes.”

“What’s the signal?”

“ _Muzu!_ ” The crow cawed in answer, flapping his wings. Roscoe acknowledged the signal with a nod.

Sorren took to the trees, climbing up the hairy vines that encircled a large tree. He felt the lieutenant’s eyes on his back as he pulled himself up; it was as if the malice of the iron were gouging two holes into his back through the wielder's gaze. Chills shot up and down his spine. He pushed them aside. Just hoped the man would keep still for long enough.

Sorren pulled himself into the crook of a branch, bracing himself against the trunk. The jungle had gone eerily quiet. Even the insects seemed to have stilled their breath in anticipation. Sorren reached under his cloak and drew out his small crossbow. He cranked back the cable, snapping it into place. Putting it aside he drew one of his tallow soaked bolts, holding them aloft - ready to set the torch to it and set the end of the bolt ablaze.

From where he sat Sorren could see Roscoe and his dire wolf. The man was fidgeting in anticipation of the drake’s arrival, passing the iron between his hands. It made the halfborn antsy to watch the ballet of passes, each time he found himself wishing the man would drop it. He was twirling the waffle iron as if it were light as a feather. Sorren’s eyes felt gritty the longer he watched it. Streaks of color seemed to pour off it for every completed rotation. He would’ve given anything to know who had created it, and _why_. What was wrong with a classic mace or a thimble?

A crash shattered the iron’s spell, tearing the jungle asunder. The huge bony face of the drake burst through the foliage. Sorren, distracted fumbled with his bolts. He cursed his inattention as several tumbled to the ground. Muzu scolded him, bating angrily. As the drake stepped out into the clearing, his hand caught one, and he drew back from the edge.

Below him, the drake stalked closer towards the kegs of rum, with the lieutenant just beyond it. Pollen sparkled on its snout, and the drake stumbled awkwardly, sniffing deeply. The bones of its tail rattled against the ground, as it slowly stalked forward. It bared its teeth in a ghastly grin, sucking in the scent of alcohol and flower dust. It cast about, trying to pinpoint the iron. Barrels cracked and splintered under its weight as it stepped further into the glade, soaking its wings in rum.

Roscoe fidgeted, dancing around the drake, left and right. Sorren suppressed the urge to growl - how could he take aim with him flitting around like a deranged moth rune?

The drake spun around trying to get at the iron, knocking over more barrels and dousing the undergrowth. Alcohol splashed across its wooden belly, as it twisted, slipping on a puddle. The skull crashed to the ground. It was now or never.

~

Sterling had a bad record with drakes. They didn’t like him, and he didn’t much care for them either. Least of all big, creaky undead ones. He backed up quickly as the beast loomed above him; its eyeless gaze trying to pin him to the ground as if he were a rare beetle. He had to keep moving or else be caught in its trap.

 _I don’t like this plan,_ he thought suddenly. Why had that halfborn asked for a light? His boots were soaked through with some of the strongest rum he'd been able to load onto the caravan - if the ground under him were to burst into flames…

He tried to reach out for Moritz, to ask her opinion, but felt only the reassuring presence of the iron. It wasn’t that the thing could talk, not really, but thinking about it in his hands seemed to ease something in him. A constant companion in a way. Like how some people grew attached to their swords, or a lucky sweater.

_He’s not going to let me leave this island alive._

The thought startled him, and Sterling glanced around up at the halfborn where he crouched in a tree, looking for all the world like a demon vulture. The lieutenant’s heart sunk. Of course he wouldn’t let him escape. The signal would never come, and he’d be caught standing here like a cod’s head, burned alive. It was what he would do, in the other’s position. Wait - he wouldn’t really do that, would he? But he wasn’t a halfborn, possessed by whatever foul magics that swam in their veins. He could see the odd-eyed bird now, laughing and gloating as he pulled the iron from his charred remains.

Anger flared in his gut at the thought. Moritz whined, pawing at him, but he shoved her aside. He needed to concentrate. He’d have to make a break for it, but if he did it now where the villain could see him he’d have a bolt in his back before he even reached the tree cover.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place then - the bird brain had more sense then he’d thought. But he certainly hadn’t foreseen the drake being this sluggish. The creature stumbled about, trying to pinpoint the iron amid the intoxicating fumes. Sterling skirted around it, trying to slide around its far side so as to be out of the halfborn’s sight.

 _Too good-natured, that’s what I am, too trusting,_ he thought as he circled around. _That’s how I get myself into these messes._

~

Sorren held the torch to his bolt. The tallow sizzled, catching light. He held the cross bow up, sighting down the shaft - he would aim for the wings. Even if the whole drake didn’t go up in flame, burning off a wing should at least ground it.

If only the damned lieutenant would hold still! He was backing away from the great beast and into the woods. His dire wolf was at his back growling as she tried to push his legs towards the drake.

 _Muzu, get read_ y, he told the crow silently. He didn’t want the lieutenant hanging around after the ground was lit up. He somehow doubted safe passage aboard the ship if he admitted to burning up the Captain’s brother, even accidentally. With a bob of his head, Muzu prepared to give the signal.

Sorren took careful aim - he had to be sure he didn’t hit bone and lose his chance. And though the wing was broad, it flapped about wildly with the beast’s erratic movements.

He held his breath, narrowing his focus until he saw only the pinprick of wing he’d targeted. He let loose.

A burning comet in a void of green, the bolt arched through the air. A more perfect shot couldn’t be imagined. Than the drake suddenly lunged away, and the shaft buried itself into the ground. Sorren cursed.

_Ka-floom!_

A brilliant fireball lit up the glade as the barrels of rum went up with a whoosh. Sorren covered his eyes at the brightness, the heat searing his skin. Muzu cawed out in alarm. When he looked up, the drake was tearing away through the undergrowth, untouched.

“ _What is he doing?!_ ” In the light from the fire, Sorren could see the lieutenant, having edged his way around the glade, had left his post without waiting for the signal. He was fleeing after the crew. With the drake galloping behind him. _"The idiot!"_

Quickly Sorren swung himself down from the tree and took off after the drake. In a forest this wet he predicted the fire wouldn’t get far, but he didn’t want to chance it.

He cursed the lieutenant - he cursed the iron - and he cursed whatever or whoever had thought it a good idea to bring to life a dead drake. _Necromancers,_ he growled to himself. _Enough is never enough with them._

He fought his way through the vines and creepers, and found himself stumbling out onto sandy ground. There through the trees he spied the ocean, glittering like a promised jewel in the sunlight. Scudding across the horizon like clouds were the sails of a tall ship.

As he darted through the trees, he was greeted by the sight of the crew, and their mounts. There was some sort of altercation going on, but Sorren was too far away to make out what it was about.

Before Sorren could start towards him, he heard a rumbling bellow in the trees. He dove to the ground just as the lieutenant burst out of the jungle. His boot caught Sorren in the side, and he went sprawling into the sand face first. Moritz skidded into the two of them, creating a pileup.

The drake was right behind them. It broke through the tree cover, bones and cables grinding in its throat. Muzu screeched. Sleipnir screamed. In the distance Sorren heard the sailors shout; Willy’s was likely among them. The monstrosity reared above him, blotting out the sun. It dove for him. Sorren closed his eyes and curled in on himself trying to make as small a target as possible. _Please just eat the damn lieutenant and let’s have done with it._

There was a snarl over his ear, sudden and sharp. He didn’t dare to look as he waited for those teeth to strike him. Strange - they were taking a while to reach him. Sorren cautiously peered out from under his arm.

Moritz had her teeth clamped around the drake’s radius bone, and was pulling with all her might. The bone was easily as long as she was, but the dire wolf was doing her best to keep her grip. The drake tried to shake her off to no avail. She might have been small as dires went, but direwolves were originally bred to take down drakes - obviously some of the old blood still ran in her. Her twin tails lashed the ground as she tugged, her front paws lifting off the ground.

The drake reared upright. Her teeth still clenched tight, she was dragged skyward. The beast shook its wing, flinging her around like a loose sock. Though her efforts were valiant, even a dire’s teeth couldn’t stand up to that sort of force. The drake flung her off. She dropped into the soft sand.

“ _Moritz!”_ Roscoe’s cry was strangely choked, as if someone were squeezing all the air out of him. He was on his feet, body trembling, the iron swinging uselessly at his side. Sorren looked up at him; saw his face drain of blood.

Sorren could see the sailors beyond Roscoe. Willy shoved his way through the crowd and came running towards them, like a knight charging into battle, his frying pan withdrawn and held before him like a sword. But he was too far away, and in any case Sorren couldn’t see what he could do against the massive, undead drake.

_“Will you do something?!”_

Sorren wasn't sure who his shout was meant for. but it hardly mattered. In that moment, something inside the lieutenant broke. Sorren watched as his eyes snapped back into focus. They glimmered a dark red, like old blood. His throat let loose an undulating war cry that made Sorren’s flesh stand on end. Then, without warning, or thought to life or limb, the lieutenant charged the drake.

The drake looked up at the cry, and snarled. It set its stance. As Roscoe rushed it, the drake came to meet him, galloping on spiky wings, mouth gaping wide to meet this challenger. For a moment they seemed to be suspended in time - a blazing tapestry of man and beast. One on the edge of demolishing the other. Given the odds, Sorren wouldn’t have bet the lieutenant to be the demolisher. Still, if one had to go out, one always wished for such a stylish exit.

Sorren never knew why the man did what he did next, and judging by the look on the lieutenant’s face neither did he. In any case, as the jaws of certain death came hurtling towards them, Roscoe heaved back and let go the iron.

It sang a haunting screech as it flew through the air, end over end. The grating sound rose and rose, until Sorren felt his ears would burst. It soared between the giant teeth; struck the back of the drake’s throat with a solid, and rather anticlimactic _ping_.

The drake’s skull came up sharply, surprise writ over what was left of its features.

It sputtered. It coughed. It heaved.

Neck twisting, bones popping, it tried to dislodge the waffle iron in its throat. Sorren crawled backwards, as the whole amalgamation of wood and bone wretched and shuddered. Vertebra creaked and snapped. Wooden planks groaned. The whole form shuddered like a marionette cut loose of its strings, crunching this way then the other.

In spite of himself Sorren was impressed by the throw on the lieutenant’s part. Sorren glanced at him. The man looked dazed, and his color hadn’t much improved. He looked like he might be sick at any moment.

“Get your wolf,” Sorren told him. No telling how long the drake would be occupied choking on that iron - it didn’t exactly have lungs, so one had to wonder how it was choking at all. Perhaps the iron’s magic didn’t agree with it.

The lieutenant snapped back into focus, before Sorren could strike it into him. He lunged for the dark shape of Moritz, scooping her up in his arms. Sorren caught the lieutenant muttering, “Dumb mutt.” He glanced back to see Moritz bare her teeth at him. She wriggled out of his grasp, and began limping down the beach toward the boat, Sorren and Roscoe following behind. It was too soon to feel triumphant, but Sorren had to admit something similar washed over him in that moment. Especially at the sight of Willy rushing out to meet them.

He was waving his hat and shouting something Sorren couldn’t hear - probably something about pancakes. Then Willy pointed behind them. Sorren glanced the way they'd come.

There on the beach crouched the drake. Shivers raked its malformed body. As they watched, a sudden light sprang up in the empty eye sockets, as if a fire had been lit in its skull. A cold knot of dread begin to coil in Sorren’s stomach. The drake reared upright, lifting it’s wings high overhead, and roared. This time however, it was no death rattle, but a full-bodied thunder that set the trees trembling. Sorren could feel it echoing in his own chest, sending a spike of fear directly into his brain. He fought to tamp it down, to think clearly, but the power was too awesome. He wanted to run. Run and hide somewhere he'd never be found.

With a snarl the drake launched itself into the sky, shredding the canopy as if it were crepe paper. It seemed to have far better command of the wind now, using it to its advantage, rather than fighting against it. Its skull swept back and forth, scanning the landscape; new eyes glittered a sickly red - if they could be called eyes. Then the beast peeled away and went curling through the air, roaring.

With horror Sorren and Roscoe and Moritz watched it wing towards the ship; their only means of escape.

Willy caught up to them, puffing slightly.

“Well. This is certainly going to put a damper on my pancake plans.”

 


	16. A Brief But Stimulating Interlude

_“Just remember - you still owe me those pancakes. If you - well, I’ll be coming after ye intending to collect on that promise, so ye better be up to pay.”_

Willy bent to plant a peck on Sorren’s lips, then launched himself into Raylene’s saddle. He shouted for the sailors to get moving, but they were already ahead. He gave one more parting glance to Sorren, surrounded by barrels of rum and that twitchy lieutenant fiddling with the iron. I trust you, pretty bird. Wheeling his mount, he charged into the forest after the sailors.

“Keep on!” Willy yelled, waving the riders onward. The slepnir thundered through the forest, breaking branches and trampling the undergrowth, running for all they were worth. Willy could _taste_ the sea it was so close, the salt tickling his nose. That nose had never steered him astray. He touched Raylene’s sides, and the equine sprang forward, running for all he was worth. The sure-footed steeds wove through the trees; streaks of pink and purple in a tapestry of green. Soon strands of white sand and blue also made their presence known.

Raylene cleared a rock with a sudden jump. The sleipnir’s hooves hit sand, and he stumbled, but his extra legs caught him and kept running, as the jungle fell away. The group of them shot through a break in the cliffs, and suddenly the sky was above them, where leaves had been, and hooves were kicking up sand rather than dirt.

At the water’s edge the sailors pulled up their mounts, who frisked and shied at the cold sea lapping their legs. Raylene spun beneath Willy, who was finding it hard to keep his seat on the slippery sleipnir. “Ahoy! Look there!” The glass smith pointed out to the horizon. There in the distance where the sea curved beyond the reach of the eye was a white sail, bobbing up and down. As if on cue, the waves dropped into a trough and revealed the dark bulk of the ship.

With a ‘halloo’ Willy tore off his hat and waved it wildly. The other sailors joined him. Caps were flung in the air. Whistles and shouts beckoned the ship. Ouider pulled out a spyglass and held it to his eye.

“It’s the Captain!” he cried. “They’re headed this way.” The crew exploded into relieved cheers.

“I don’t see what you’re all excited about,” Hamir spoke up sharply, cutting off any further celebrations. “How is the Captain going to react to the news of our leaving behind the lieutenant, you think, hmm?” She turned her dusky yellow sleipnir towards Willy. “And instead of treasure we bring him this… _pirate._ This _thief._ ”

“Hey now! I haven’t stolen anything,” Willy argued.

“Oh, haven’t you? Why exactly were you left here without a ship?” She reined in her steed. “I’ve been thinking, it makes no sense for an honest sailor to be out in these waters, claiming to have found treasure.” She drove her mare at Raylene, who sprang back in alarm, nearly unseating Willy.

“It’d make perfect sense for a glass smith though, which I am.”

Hamir pushed her sleipnir forward, driving Raylene back into the water. The pink steed whinnied in alarm. “You’re not telling us the truth, are you _ba'tho_? Traveling with that demon-eyed halfborn. Roscoe’s probably dead by his hand now.” Wary glances passed between the crew. A ripple of unease ran through them

Willy felt the old anger stirring beneath his breast bone. “That halfborn is the only reason any of us made it out of that cavern in the first place!”

“Aye, flying away on that undead monster. I saw the halfborn all right, sat right between the beast’s ribs.” In one smooth movement she drew a cutlass from her mount’s saddle and leveled it at Willy. “Now I might be willing to look the other way about me suspicions. I think we all would with a bit of… incentive. Yer gonna tell us where ye stashed that treasure of yours.”

Willy growled. “That’s extortion. I think.”

“Eh, technically the laws of the sea don’t say nothing about extortion,” Ouider pointed out. Willy shot him a glare. The wolfkin shrugged helplessly, as Hamir pressed closer.

“They’re sending the longboat!” The crew perked up at this bit of news. Willy didn’t turn around to see. He kept his eye focused on Hamir, and her grisly smile.

“I’ll never tell!”

“Then face my sword or the tide.” Raylene trembled as the surf swirled around his belly. Willy glanced down at his sleipnir. Sweeping his eyes back up to Hamir, he hefted his frying pan.

“I chose sword! I challenge ye to a pirates’ duel! If ye win, ye can take what you want of me. The golden goodness will be yours.” Hamir glared at him. “But if I win, ye yield to me, as do the lot of ye!” He swept the pan to include the entire crew of sailors, who broke out into protest. “Aren’t ye wolfkin fond of fighting? Or do you prefer to skulk around like a common street dog, taking a man all unawares?"

Hamir snarled, teeth flashing. “Ouider!” she snapped.

The older wolfkin jumped at her voice. He swallowed. “Laws of the sea and all… I - I think he can do that.” Hamir snarled, yanking on the poor mare’s mouth. She backed up, giving Raylene the space to advance.

As soon as the pink sleipnir’s knees were above the water, Hamir drove forward with all the ferocity of an unchained dire wolf. Willy flung up his arm and caught the blow on his frying pan. The sailors roared their approval.

The two sleipnir collided in slow motion. Their two riders were barely trained in staying on the saddle, let alone engaging in combat from one. The yellow mare smacked into Raylene, who tried to twist away, and only managed to wrap his neck around the mare. She snorted, and Raylene tried to offer his apologies, as Willy and Hamir exchanged ringing blows.

The mare dodged left, at the same time the stallion dodged left, and they smacked together again. Multiple legs became tangled together.

The sailors cheered, eager for blood to break the tension and anxiety of this whole day. They wanted release, they wanted someone to blame, they wanted treasure - and Hamir would give it to them. She was their champion.

The realization sent Willy’s head spinning a bit. The weight of the day’s adventure pressed on his shoulders - his arms twinged with fatigue, sweat dripped into his eyes. Pancake levels were dangerously low - and for a moment he wasn’t all that sure he could win. The frying pan dragged on his arm, slowing his movements. She was relentless - what she lacked in skill she made up for in sheer brute force. If he wasn't so tired he could've outmaneuvered her attacks. _If ifs were sails, we should never miss a wind._ His attacks started to give way to blocks. He was forced back rather then pressing the offensive.

In a second of miscalculation, Hamir found an opening. The cutlass snapped out, shaving off a bit of plume and knocking the feathered hat right off Willy’s head . Willy cried out in pain as his watched the cap fall away into the water. “This is my third favorite hat!”

“Don’t worry. You won’t be needing a hat after I’ve taken your head.” The blade went singing towards his neck. Willy bent over backwards to avoid it, and just as quickly sprang back up. The wide arc of her swing left Hamir’s side open and Willy went for it. The frying pan whapped her in the side. “Oof!”

The crowd of sailors gasped.

With a snarl, Hamir yanked on her sleipnir’s reins. The yellow mare reared, four deadly hooves slashing at Willy. Raylene went one way and Willy went another. Suddenly water was filling his mouth, more salty even then that time he’d mixed up the sugar in a cookie recipe. He bobbed up sputtering, in time to see Hamir riding him down.

With all the strength he could muster, Willy flung himself sideways, reaching for the frying pan - he couldn’t remember dropping it.

Hamir dismounted the yellow sleipnir, dropping into the surf. She readjusted her grip on the cutlass and leered at Willy. At least, he thought it was a leer; it was hard to tell. He gripped the pan two handed, breathing hard, waiting. Looking for a twitch or a flick that would betray his adversary’s next move.

She lunged forward and Willy was just barely able to catch her blade on the hilt of the pan. Gritting teeth, the two of them strained against one another. Metal scraped against metal, sending eels swimming up Willy’s back.

_Ka-floom!_

The sailors whirled in alarm as a huge column of fire blasted out of the jungle behind them. Hamir whirled, and Willy seized the opportunity. He lifted the pan overhead, intending to bring it straight down on her -

Hamir whipped around in time to see Willy standing over her, pan raised to strike. Her eyes narrowed at this duplicity. The glass smith gave her a few blinks. Ignoring her glare he feigned a yawn, stretching broadly and letting his arms drop.

She growled. “That’s low, even for a pirate.”

“Good thing I’m a glass smith, then.” Willy swung. There was a solid _ka-thunk_ as his pan collided with the side of her head. She staggered. Willy watched as her eyes slowly crossed. She swayed, first forward, then back. It really was sort of beautiful, almost serene as she slowly realized she’d been struck and that she needed to sit down. And then she blacked out and the ground decided what she needed was to lie down, flat on her back.

The crew turned around then, to see Willy standing over the defeated wolfkin. There was a moment of stunned silence. Several of the sailors rushed over to Hamir’s aid, dragging her from the water. The rest all turned to look on Willy.

Ouider was the one to break the silence. He picked up the fallen hat and held it out to the victor. “What now, Sir?”


	17. In Which Our Heros Take Command

The group of sailors were in a riot when Sorren, Roscoe and Moritz reached them. By this time, the ship’s longboat had reached shore. There was pushing and shoving as the sailors tried to make their way into the boat, while the rowers argued and pushed back.

“Why haven’t they loaded the sailors into the boat already?” Sorren asked as soon as he’d gained his breath. He stooped to run his hands down Moritz spine. She let him check her back and shoulders, then snapped when he pressed on her ribs. Willy winced in sympathy, and scratched Fiore’s chin.

Roscoe was shouting for everyone to be quiet, but seemed unable to gain control. Several of the crew began outright arguing with him. Others were shouting for everyone to just shut up, which seemed to have the opposite effect. Several were crouched over Hamir, splashing water on the wolfkin’s face. Others were struggling to keep the sleipnir under control, who added their braying to the frenzy, as the sea servals sought to climb their backs for a better view of the chaos.

Willy straightened. He stuck his finger in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle that shut everyone up. He fixed a withering eye on the group. “Now, listen up ye lot. Ye gotta decide whether ye’ll be listening to yer officer, or no. But if the answer’s no, I hope one o’ ye have a halfway decent plan for dealing with that drake.”

The sailors backed down, muttering softly among themselves. He heard one whisper, “He’s the one who got us into this mess,” and a yelp as he was silenced. Willy couldn’t fathom how Roscoe put up with such blatant disrespect. He would’ve never tolerated such talk in a crew of his own. “If ye have a complaint, ye’d best tell yer captain’s face; not whisper about like a bunch of cowardly old chillawings.” The sailor in question looked abashed, and didn’t meet Willy’s eyes. “I know yer lieutenant here isn’t exactly the smartest, or bravest, or particularly charismatic, or the remotest bit competent. He’s pretty much the opposite.” Murmurs of agreement all around. “But what he is, is a damned good player at Rogue’s Ruff. And right now, I’d say we need a bit of that luck on our side.”

“Didn’t you beat him at Rogue’s Ruff?” Ouider asked.

“I said he was good - I didn’t say he was a damned _savant_.”

“I think I can speak for _myself_ ,” Roscoe hissed at Willy. He looked annoyed, but also relived. Willy shrugged and stepped aside - if he had the wherewithal, he probably could’ve taken charge of the whole little company, but he gratefully plopped the big heaping mess in the lieutenant’s hands.

To his credit, Roscoe did step up and say the exact thing the sailors needed to hear: “I want to get off this heaving island as quickly as possible. The sooner we get back to the ship, the sooner we all can be rid of each other, so lets stow our misgivings and get out of here.” A cheer went up at that. “First, we need to leave all supplies here - carry nothing but yourself aboard the longboats. We’re already pushing the weight limits. Next -”

Willy turned to Sorren as the lieutenant laid out the evacuation plan. “How’s she’s doing?” he asked, nodding to Moritz.

“Some bruised ribs, possibly cracked. And that damaged paw will take some mending.” Sorren fetched a roll of bandages from one of the medic kits on the sleipnir’s packs. “Direwolves are tough. She’ll live.” Moritz huffed at Muzu, who had hopped a little too close in his own examination of her state of lifefulness.

“What I want to know is what happened to Hamir. Is she alright?”

“Ah, that. She… fell down.”

Willy looked around at Hamir, who was awake now, but dazed. Sorren thrust a vial into her hands, instructing her to drink it.

Roscoe clapped his hands. “Alright. Let’s move! Everyone to the boats!” The sailors snapped to attention and began unloading the sleipnir. Saddles and bridles were dropped to than sand. The newly freed sleipnir kicked up their heels and ran off.

“W-wait!” Willy looked up suddenly alarmed. “Where are the sleipnir going?”

Roscoe rubbed his temples in frustration. “If you’d been paying the slightest attention, you would have heard me say ‘we’ll leave the pack animals here.’”

“What! But what about Raylene?” Willy threw his arms around the bright pink sleipnir. The animal blinked in surprise, and then went back to chewing at his bit.

“Is Raylene a pack animal?”

“No! Raylene is friend animal. My friend animal.”

Roscoe shook his head. “Than you’re more than welcome to stay here with him.”

Sorren looked at Willy without a word.

“But Sorren -”

The halfborn lifted his brows slightly, a silent question.

“I was thinking the attic’s mostly empty…”

Sorren’s brows quaked a fraction higher.

“And you could use him around the house - he could mow the lawn, do the dishes - we need a new sleipnir-tail fly whisk!”

“Will.”

Whimpering, Willy looked between Raylene and Sorren. Sorren could already see the lower lip working.

The sleipnir were stretching and whinnying, reveling in their newfound freedom, a dancing kaleidescope of pink and magenta and yellow. Raylene’s ears pricked up at the sight. The purple mare was nickering at some of the others, moving through the herd of them.

Something inside Willy’s chest shuddered as he took a breath. Raylene’s hide shivered beneath his palm, warm and soft. He knew what he had to do, but why did he have to be the one to do it? The glass smith took the long head in his hands and looked Raylene in the eye. “I’ll never forget you Raylene.”

Sorren suppressed a heavy sigh.

Tears blurred Willy’s vision; he blinked to clear them, and found it only made things worse. “You were a good slipslop. Brave and loyal… well, on second thought maybe not so much on either o’ those two counts - but ye were _mine_ , for a short time. But… my heart belongs to another, one too broke to buy a stable.” Muzu and Sorren exchanged glances. “We’ve only known one another for a short time, but you were the best sleipnir I’ve ever won in a game of Rogue’s Ruff. So, I maybe cheated a little bit, but don’t let that mar your memory of me, my sweet, cherry blossom dumpling.” Sorren cleared his throat. The boat was starting to fill, and the drake was bearing down on the ship. It was time to hurry things up.

“Though we must part ways now, know that I’ve forever been changed by having ye in my life.” Willy reached up to pull the bridle off of Raylene. The big glass smith threw up his hands. “Go! Be free! Run with the wind, Raylene!” The stallion snorted, and promptly put his head down to crop the beach grass at Willy’s feet.

Willy wiped a tear from his eye. “I’m going to miss your lack of dramatic timing most of all, Raylene.” Sorren walked up beside Willy to clap a hand on his shoulder - before remembering the torn skin on his palms and instantly regretting it. Willy gave him a strong smile, and clasped his hand. Mistaking the tears in Sorren’s eyes for sorrow. It was a struggle to keep his composure for Willy’s sake; he was relieved when the man released his hand. “Could you give me a minute, pretty bird?”

Sorren gave him an encouraging smile, and walked away towards the long boat, leaving Willy to undo the saddle and bags tied to Raylene.

As Sorren neared the line of sailors, the voice of the lieutenant rose to his ears. Roscoe was arguing with the two sailors who’d rowed the boat out to them, something about the safe occupancy limits of the tiny long boat. The rest of the crew boarded in as orderly a fashion as they were able, Hamir being helped by two sailors. Sorren went unremarked upon as he slipped into a seat between two of the larger blokes.

Roscoe had had enough and screamed at the two rowers, “You’re just about at the limit of your own safety occupancy, if you think we’re not all getting in this boat.” Moritz backed up his words with a snarl.

They were about to shove off when someone called out. Sorren looked around to see Willy pumping across the sand towards them. With a flying leap he launched himself into the boat. Roscoe glared at him, but said nothing as the big glass smith shoved his rump down between two others; the boat was so tightly packed, it was a wonder one of them didn’t pop out the other side.

The herd of sleipnir stood at the tree line, watching them leave. Willy half stood and blew a kiss to Raylene. When the boat rocked crazily, Sorren yanked him back down. “Can we please try not to call attention to ourselves any more than we already have?” Fiore gave a _mert_ of agreement, and bated her human’s nose.

Willy still watched the shore with sorrow. Which is why he saw it first. The shadow swooped over the beach, scattering the sleipnir. The animals ran, screaming in panic as the drake angled low, across the beach.

“Holy Dolos!” one of the oarsman screamed. Roscoe looked over his shoulder to see the drake barreling out of the sky towards them. He grabbed the two oarsmen and shoved them down into the boat without protest. Every oar was snatched up took and pulled into the surf. The little boat groaned as the rowers laboriously pushed it off the beach. It rode so low, it’s hull scraped along the sand for a good ways, before it finally reached open water. Giant talons sunk several inches into the sand where they had been. Red glowing eyes looked up and seemed to radiate hatred straight at the sailors.

“I gave it the iron. Why the hell is it still after us?” The lieutenant demanded. He threw an accusatory glare at Sorren and Willy, as if expecting them to answer for this mistake.

“Maybe it’s waiting for an apology,” Willy offered. Roscoe’s glare turned positively icy.

Sorren shrugged. “I’m not a necromancer.”

“The bloody thing’s pure evil - does it need a reason fer doing anything?” Ouider spoke up.

Roscoe scoffed. “There’s no such thing as pure evil. That monster is nothing more now than a mindless, soulless shamble of bones - it can’t think, it can’t reason - it’s just a tool for some vile purpose -” The drake seemed to puff up indignant. It roared then. The water vibrated with the sound, droplets bouncing up around them as if the sea itself were boiling. With a single heavy thrust of it’s wings the undead creature lifted off and poured through the sky like smoke. The gust off its wings shoved the long boat across the sea as if it were a toy; sending up a huge spray that doused them with sea water. The sailors hurriedly began to bail out.

“I think you just offended that mindless, soulless shamble of bones.” Roscoe gave the evil eye to the boatload of them.

The drake flew in a wide circle over the ocean’s surface, banking sharply. The rowers pulled for all they were worth; Sorren and Willy helped to bail - having left every container behind to loose ballast, Sorren used his bandaged hands; Willy his hat. Even the sailors’ bondeds helped. The otterlings and servals used their broad tails to sweep water overboard. Moritz stood on the bow and listened to the bos’un’s language of whistles coming from the ship ahead of them. Whatever meaning her reply barks held, if any, were lost on Sorren. Even the rune dragon with the pegleg started up a rollicking hauling shanty to give the rowers a rhythm to match.

_“And we’ll ro-o-oll down, roll down to Alabaster-o!_

_But my true love isna’ there!”_

The tiny rune’s squawks were almost drowned out by the roar of the drake, so the sailors added their own voices to the song. The drake dove towards them, slashing the water with its tail. A small wave rose up and drenched them. For a heartbeat they wavered, the boat rocking wildly. Then Ouider took up the song again in his deep baritone, and the rowing resumed. Even the lieutenant at the tiller joined in, until the very planks shook with their combined voices, and seemed to lift them straight out the foam.

_“Oh, the captain’s in ‘is quarters and the guns are rolling out,_

_The captain’s in ‘is quarters and the guns are rolling out,_

_The captain’s in ‘is quarters and the guns are rolling out,_

_But my true love isna’ there,_

_And we’ll ro-o-oll down, roll down to Alabaster-o!_

_We’ll ro-o-oll down, roll down to Alabaster-o!_

_We’ll ro-o-oll down, roll down to Alabaster-o!_

_But my true love isna’ there!”_

Sorren squinted at the ship as they drew nearer. She had reefed her sails and was waiting for the tiny longboat to come alongside her. The decks were swarming with activity, looking like a fleet of ants descending on a dropped apple slice. The piping of the whistle was calling them to clear the decks for battle. Beyond the ship the drake was cutting a path through the winds, darting in close. A burst of smoke from the forecastle, and the resulting shower of grapeshot seemed to dissuade the drake’s interest, at least temporarily. Sorren knew it couldn’t feel pain, so perhaps it was simply startled. It drew off, and began another wide circle, as if to survey the sitting rubber duck rune that they were.

Their tiny boat bumped up against her mother ship, begging for attention. Roscoe stood and yelled “Ahoy!” The crew scrambled to lower the johnny ladder. The returning sailors couldn’t get up it fast enough. As there was no time to ready the winches and draw the tiny boat back on deck, they simple tied off a line, and would leave it to drag in the ship’s wake.

Upon reaching the deck, Sorren grabbed Willy by his coat, and hauled him off to stoop near the ship’s stern, out of the way of the working crew and the new arrivals. He wanted to have a good view of the ship’s layout, without attracting too much attention. Farthest astern was also the raised quarterdeck where the captain stood and relayed orders. Roscoe was the last to board, shoving Moritz ahead of him, one handed. There was no welcoming ceremony for the returning lieutenant; the bosun didn’t even pipe him aboard. Then again he was still in his shirtsleeves, and they were as dirty and sweat stained as the rest of his crew looked. He stumbled towards the quarterdeck, nearly fell, and caught himself on the companionway’s railing.

“Cap’n -”

“Sterling, by the black Ancient himself, what have you brought down on us?”

“ _Me?”_ From where Sorren sat beneath the raised deck he could see Roscoe’s face, but not that of his captain and brother. The lieutenant looked absolutely furious as he leaned against the railing, panting. He glared up at the unseen figure. “You’re the one as sent me on this thrice-cursed mission.”

“Ready the guns!” The captain shouted to the sailors. The pitch changed as the voice addressed the ragged lieutenant. “You impudent coward. I knew you couldn’t be trusted with this mission. You at least brought me the iron, did you not?”

The younger Roscoe’s face suddenly drained of its flush. “You knew what it was? You sent me into that ancients-forsaken jungle for a… a _waffle iron?_ What - to accentuate _your breakfast spread?_ ”

“Well of course. What better conversation starter than to dine on waffles made by a legendary iron? And you even managed to botch that simple task. Well done, brother.” The voice above oozed with long-held malice. Sorren hadn’t felt such a strong urge to gouge an eye out in a long while. Beside him, Willy growled. His own blood was riled up, to think all their trouble was caused by a rich captain’s taste for ancient magical culinary artifacts. But the captain wasn’t finished. “You are a disgrace. If you had even an ounce of manhood you would have sacrificed yourself to that beast’s hunger, and saved us the gunpowder. At least than your life would not have been in vain.”

Lieutenant Roscoe backed up, bizarrely demure, as his brother stepped down onto the deck. “You’ve wasted enough of our time. Is the gun deck clear?”

A nearby gunnar saluted. “Clear Captain!”

“Very well, ready to fire. On my mark.”

The bosun relayed the orders down to the gun deck below.

“What sort o’ fight do ye think this is, mate?” Sorren was too late to stop Willy from strolling forward to confront the Captain. “Ye couldn’t train yer gun sights high enough to shoot its belly full ‘o lead.”

Nearabouts a head shorter than Roscoe, with hazel eyes that seemed sharp enough to cut through steel, the Captain leveled a glare at this new upstart. “Who are you? Not one of my sailors, or I’d have you flogged for such slovenly dress.”

Sorren dropped his head in his hands and moaned. Willy’s face turned nearly as red as his hair, and his nostrils seemed to shoot sparks. Even the dense-skulled lieutenant recognized the change in mood and began quietly sidling out of Willy’s sight.

Roscoe the younger looked at his captain. “We don’t have the proper artillery for aerial combat - the man’s right; we couldn’t train the guns high enough, or aim fast enough to knock it out of the sky.” He paused, then cautiously offered. “If we could turn the ship we could use the swivel guns to -”

The captain puffed out, swelling like an indignant humming bumble. “And who are you to tell me what to do? You couldn’t handle a cooking fire, let alone a battle.”A war waged across the lieutenant’s face, anger and defiance fighting obedience.“You take advantage of our family relationship to speak out of turn. Remember your place aboard this ship. You are dismissed.”

“I…”

“ _Dismissed, lieutenant!_ ”

“Captain - should I give the order?” The bosun asked calmly.

The Captain threw out a hand and bellowed, “ _Fire!_ ” 

Within milliseconds the guns barked out, red sparks flying. Oily black blossoms bloomed across the deck. The force knocked the ship on its side, the force reverberating through the planks under their feet. Sorren was knocked back into Willy, who had braced himself against the ship’s roll instinctively. As for the lieutenant, he was thrown against the ship’s railing, and would’ve toppled over if he hadn’t caught himself at the last second.

Slowly the acrid smoke began to clear; everyone looked to see where the drake was. Sorren squinted. The skies were clear and empty. The drake was no where to be seen. The moment held, than another.

A horrible screech made them all whip around in time to see the massive form of the drake attack from behind. In half a second it was on them. Latching its jagged teeth into the mizzen mast it wrenched. With a horrible crunching sound, the mast snapped in two as if it were merely a toothpick.

The men and women on deck shot arrows at the beast, and waved their swords, but it did about as much damage as a ladybug fanning its wings. The drake tried to land itself on the deck. Fortunately its bulk prevented it from getting a good angle to land. It was forced to break away, in the process taking a good chunk of rigging with it.

Willy snarled at the Captain as the crew regrouped. “Maybe you should take the wadding out of yer ears and listen to ‘im” Willy yelled, pointing at the lieutenant. “He might be dumb as a post, but at least he’s not banging his skull against it and hoping to make pecans out of pie crust.”

Sorren stepped forward, seeing as how Willy had already entrenched himself in this argument, and tried to be diplomatic. He’d never been very good at diplomacy. It was why he’d joined the Talon branch of the Watch Crows - it didn’t require much talking. And yet, here he was. “Captain - it might be time to employ a different strategy. Even if we landed a hit, it wouldn’t be enough to bring it down. It needs to be set ablaze.”

“What is this?” The Captain demanded, glancing at the lieutenant. “Am I to take orders from a jumped up sandpiper, a beat-down player,” flicking the broken plume that dangled from Willy’s hat, “and now this thin-blooded peck?”

Fiore hissed. Muzu squawked. Even Moritz looked startled. Willy spat from between clenched teeth. “Sorren, luv…”

Sorren pointedly turned away. He didn’t need to hear the rest of the statement. Sometimes a Watch Crow had to diplomatic, to smooth feathers, as it were. And at other times, one had to pretend one had no notion of one’s comrades. He couldn’t write up a report on what he’d failed to see, after all.

There came a sharp intake of breath, the scuffle of feet. A screamed curse that was promptly cut off by a splash.

He turned back around to find Willy dusting off his hands. The lieutenant leaned over the railing to peer curiously into the water.

“Captain!” A voice cried from the quarterdeck. A man in a black uniform ran towards the place where the Captain had disappeared overboard. Lieutenant Roscoe looked skyward and leaned away, casually sticking a long leg out in the other’s path. When the officer pitched forward over the railing, Roscoe graciously helped him over the side. A second, louder splash sounded. The crew all around them stared, in shock.

Roscoe, his wolf, Willy and Sorren mounted the quarterdeck, where the two other lieutenants - the acne of their middie days still fresh on their faces stared at them, pale with shock.

“Now are there any further objections?” Willy asked them. They shook their heads, and quickly retreated.

The coxswain shook with laughter as they approached her. “Aiming to add mutiny to your career, sir?” she asked Roscoe.

The lieutenant was all sweet and innocent. “Mutiny, ma’am? Certainly not. I am merely serving in the Captain’s stead while my brother and the first officer are… indisposed in the long boat.” The coxswain had to bite her lip to stop from guffawing.

“Be sure to include that in yer reports, will ye, lieutenant?” Roscoe’s eyes danced with delight as he nodded an affirmative.

The roars of the drake as it swooped in low over the ship brought their attention back to the task on hand. The tail whipped out and slashed through a sailcloth, snapping off a yardarm. Sailors scattered as wood rained down on them.

“Tie down that cloth, pull in her sheets,” Roscoe yelled at the topmen. The bosun looked a bit loath to give the orders, but a stern glare from the coxswain put him into action.

Topmen surged to contain the damage as the bosun relayed the orders, his voice booming with such intensity it drowned out even the drake’s roars.

“So… you said you’ve fought these things before?” Reluctantly Roscoe tore his eyes from the circling sky-beast to Willy and Sorren. His eyes were wide and pleading. He looked like a puppy waiting to see if they’d kick him or feed him.

“Undead reanimated drakes possessed by the evil waffle iron of Thatch Gallows? Oh sure.”

Roscoe narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Evidently he was a bit slow when it came to sarcasm.

Sorren spoke up.“You had the right idea - but the swivel guns won’t be able to deliver a big enough punch. We’ll need to lure the drake in close enough that aim shouldn’t be a problem, but we can’t risk an explosion close to the ship.” Sorren’s eyes darted back and forth in thought. Muzu was nibbling at his hair, distracting him.

Roscoe sucked at his teeth. “If you can get that thing within our gun’s range, I’m fairly sure my crew and I could hit it.”

Willy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How sure?”

“Let’s say I’d wager more than a week’s rations on it.” Moritz gave a soft whuff of agreement.

“You’ll be wagering all our lives. Are those stakes high enough?” Sorren asked.

Roscoe opened his mouth to reply, and then stopped, suddenly uncertain.

“Eh, ye did knock that drake a good ‘un with that iron. Even if it did backfire. I’d say that’s aim worth betting on.”

Sorren remained skeptical, but this probably wasn’t the time to question the man’s confidence. “ _Muzu!_ ” The crow flapped his wings to get Sorren’s attention. The halfborn turned his head to the crow and listened. With a final caw the black bird lifted off Sorren’s shoulder.

They watched as the crow bounced and fluttered through the rigging. “Muzu can distract the beast and lure it into your gun sights, Lieutenant, but regular canon won’t bring it down. And an incendiary would be too risky at that range.” Sorren muttered, “If only we had some _pey’lye._ ”

“Liquid fire.” Willy grinned at the idea. “That would put a heat on Old Boney’s tail.”

“We need something flammable, like oil…” Sorren mused. “But sticky so it won’t come off, and dense enough so that it’ll burn long enough to have a chance of catching the drake on fire.” Sorren turned to consider their options.

“What is that you got there? I thought I told everyone to leave the packs behind on the beach.”

“Oh. Nothing.” Willy quickly hid something he’d been carrying behind his back, out of the lieutenant’s sight, but not out of Sorren’s. The halfborn recognized one of the saddlebags Raylene was carrying.

“Did you really steal Naval property and smuggle it aboard a Navy ship?” Roscoe sounded more impressed than angry.

Sorren snatched the bag away, and opened it up.

“Eh… look, Sorren, I can explain…”

Sorren looked up, grinning. “Will - you’re brilliant.” He planted a kiss on the bristly cheek. He turned to Roscoe, while Willy beamed bemusedly. “Now then, where’s your galley?”


	18. In Which Pancakes Are At Long Last Prepared

Overhead, the sun was blotted out by the massive hulk of the drake. Willy looked up, brandishing his trusty frying pan, and readied for battle. He watched as Muzu winged his way towards the drake, hoping the little bird could distract the massive beast.

The creature loomed above the ship, leathery wings beating at the sails, and it screamed its deafening iron-scream. Then it folded its wings and dove like a hawk on a wood dove. Giant talons sunk into the wood, and Willy nearly lost his stance. He held firm as the great drake locked eyes with him. Or what Willy supposed were eyes in its skull.

The crew shrank away from it in terror, but Willy held firm, frying pan held out. The drake seemed to recognize its mortal enemy - its throat pulsated with barely contained rage. It launched off the ship and tore through the air at Willy.

_You should probably duck now,_ little Sorren muttered.

_You know, you’re so right Sorren._ Willy ducked just as the drake lashed its tail out. The wind whistled through the bones, as it swept the deck, sending sailors diving for shelter, shattering barrels and breaking through rigging.

When Willy straightened the frying pan was no longer in his hands. _“Nooo!”_ was all he had time to yell as the sweep carried the pan out of reach, knocking it into the sea.

~

The crow beat at the wind for all he was worth. The winds off the waves’ peaks threatened to knock the bird out of the sky, but Muzu rolled and dodged the worst of the spray, cutting a path to the massive drake as it circled around for another pass at the ship.

Muzu cried out in alarm as the beast plummeted forward with a single, powerful thrust of its leathery wings. The bird had to drop down to avoid being hit as the beast swooped down. An evil, like bursts of electricity, crackled along the crow’s primary feathers as he just missed the metal waffle iron. Its power called to him, trying to eat him alive, and then Muzu was plummeting through the sky.

With a massive effort the crow snapped open his wings as far they could reach. A gust of sea spray caught him, and he bobbed above the water, struggling to right himself.

The drake swept its tail along the deck of the ship. Barrels shattered railings crunched, lines snapped. Sailors dove for cover. Chains whipped around like wild animals, hungry and violent. They bit hunks out of the mast, where they caught. A roar erupted as one chain snatched around the drake and dragged it to a slamming stop.

“Cut it loose!” Muzu heard someone cry, before the bird titled upwards in a spiral. The cries dropped away as he climbed higher. Below him the drake strained against the chains. The mast groaned. The ship gave a collective screech as it was slowly being pulled over by the drake tangled in its chains. Sailors went tumbling, sliding seaward as the deck beneath their feet suddenly tilted. The crow darted up between those massive jaws and scolded the great beast, slapping his wings against the broad skull.

Huge nostrils flared, sucking in so deeply, it dragged Muzu from the sky. The crow tumbled across the giant, bony snout, claws scrabbling for purchase. The drake growled. It snapped its jaws, trying to catch hold of the black bird, but Muzu proved too quick. He lifted off and flew between the drake’s red glowing eyes. The beast tried to keep the bird in sight as Muzu flew over its head. The great head launched after him, but only succeeded in cracking its skull against one of the yardarms; its neck bent at an odd angle. The strain on the chains slackened. The ship rolled back, rocking wildly.

Muzu alighted on a shroud and turned an eye below to see the sailors chopping away at the mast to loosen the chain wrapped around it. It came free just as the drake settled its vertebrae back into place. Before it could attack the ship again, Muzu cawed out a rude word about the beast’s mother, and though it probably couldn’t hear the witty subtleties of the joke, for want of ears, it got the gist of things.

The huge head thrust forward, quick as a basilisk’s, horns and skull breaking through wood and line, sending Muzu backpedaling wildly into the air, desperately trying to gain height. How could something that had been dead for so long move so fast? Muzu screeched another insult and began to beat a hasty retreat. The drake surged upwards through the rigging as if it were little more than woven blades of grass. Ropes snapped and whipped through the air, slicing great gashes into the rotting flesh, but the drake, if it noticed at all, paid no mind.

Teeth came down so close Muzu was certain he’s lost at least one good tail feather. Cawing wildly, he dove and weaved through the falling debris. Sailcloth fluttered towards him, threatening to smother him. He peeled away, drove towards the open sea, and the drake followed after. Muzu cupped his wings and caught the blast of wind off the wave crests. He beat hastily across the water, the drake following close behind. Behind him came the crack and boom of a cannon.

~

Below, Roscoe was taking command. Or failing that, doing his damned best to wrest it from any of the crew. “Clear the deck. Ready the guns!” The sailors looked on with obvious trepidation - taking orders off this green lieutenant after he’d led the drake to their door didn’t quite inspire the level of confidence required for what he was asking.

Willy cleared his throat, and unleashed a deep-throated roar that seemed to shake the ship’s very timbers. “You heard him! All hands to deck! Clear your battle stations! Stand ready to fire!” The deck snapped to attention at Willy’s call. They may not have recognized him, but they recognized an order given with authority like it was second nature. Sailors streamed down to the gun deck below them.

Roscoe muttered a terse note that may have held a ‘thanks’, and vaulted over the railing to join them. He gestured for Sorren to follow.

“You are positive you can hit that thing?"

“Uh…” Roscoe paused, looking around. “Timmy! Don’t bring that powder up here! Take it below! Where’s your station?”

Timmy hopped to attention, announcing as loudly as his little lungs could, “I don’t have one! Sir!”

Sorren exchanged a pained glance with Willy. The redhead heaved a sigh, and stepped back. He widened his stance, the better to judge the roll of the deck, and stood, hands held loosely behind his back in a pose that was intimately familiar to Sorren. His chest was puffed out, his head thrust forward. Fiore twined around his legs. The wind teased at the remains of the hat’s plume. The pose said it all: this was Willy’s ship now, win or lose, he would fight for her as long as she fought for him.

Shaking off the sight of him, Sorren leapt down the hatch after the lieutenant. He found himself in the close quarters of the gun deck. The scent of gunpowder and sweat already hung heavy in the air; the taste of sand grit in his teeth. Clutching the saddlebag tightly, he followed Sterling, Timmy tagging along behind. A fine little parade they must look.

The ship’s galley was abandoned; the fires extinguished at the call for battle. The only light came from a tiny port hole in the side, which Sterling unlatched so they could see what they were doing.

Without hesitation, Sorren rolled up his sleeves and got to work. Raiding the pantry, he piled ingredients on the table. He quickly tallied up his stock -Willy’s pancake mix, one giant griffin egg, a keg of rum in place milk, lamp oil and… “I’ll need gunpowder.”

The lieutenant blinked at the halfborn.“Uh… right.” He glanced around. “Timmy! Where are you taking that powder?”

“Below…? Like you says? Sir..?”

“We really need to assign you a different duty…” He gently shooed the boy into the kitchen carrying the bag of powder. “Here - you’ve been promoted. From now on, you’re kitchen boy.”

“But sir, I’m not allowed in the galley after the incident with Humphrey’s toe -”

“We’re all owed a second chance Timmy,” Roscoe told him. He sounded as if he were reiterating an oft quoted phrase. The boy gingerly handed over the bag of powder to Sorren when he beckoned for it. Roscoe patted the boy’s head, earning himself an indignant glower.

The ship rocked suddenly, as another round of the guns went off. “You better get your gunners in line,” Sorren told him. Roscoe nodded and ran off, leaving Sorren and Timmy staring at one another.

~ 

“Hold your fire, dammit!” In the cramped quarters of the gun deck, Sterling gritted his teeth as the smell of gunpowder wafted back through the open ports, bringing tears to his eyes. Above their heads, they could hear the roars, the snapping and tearing of wood. Sterling had the distinct impression that this must be what a woodworm felt like when a rune dragon was trying to dig him out.

The gunners were highly trained, but even they couldn’t mask their fear as an unseen force pulled the ship nearly sideways. Sterling looked around in panic just as several sailors went tumbling into him. He felt the wind crushed from his ribs. The world suddenly shifted - the ceiling was suddenly no longer overhead, the floor, no longer parallel. Iron balls rolled across the floor, rapping the helpless sailors across the ankles. Fire buckets went toppling over, water sloshed everywhere, adding to the slipperiness of the slope.

What was more pressing however, was that the enormous guns strained against their ropes; the crew struggled to secure them as the slope of the floor continued to increase. If one of those got loose, it could punch a whole straight through the side of the side - alongside any body caught in its path. He caught a rope - he wasn’t sure where from - and wrapped it around the nearest cannon. Twenty others rushed to grab more rope and heave, straining to hold the guns in place.

The ship groaned, and Sterling felt his arms start to give out; his feet couldn’t get a grip on the wet deck. He thought he heard a crowing as the ship suddenly rocketed back upright. His gut hit the cannon and his breath was crushed out of him by about a dozen other sailors toppling over him.

“Get to your stations!” He roared, shoving bodies away from him. “Cock and pie - you’d think we’d never been in a gun fight before!” Silently he was thankful that Cicero wasn’t here to see this mess.

“To your stations! Ready!” Sterling yelled to the whole deck as he straightened himself out. He and Moritz crawled their way to their own station. He nodded curtly to the crew. They were all there, Ouider standing at attention with a rammer, Hamir on the opposite side, looking recovered, despite a fabulous knot on the side of her head. Dorsett, Weatleigh, Vivian with her bloodthirsty grin, and the others. Eight in total. Their eyes glowed in the gloom. Sterling recognized the look. It was a moment all warriors eagerly looked forward to with utter dread. The air was heavy with their excitement and anxiety - it tingled along the sides of the tongue like electricity.

Most captains drilled their crews relentlessly until they could load and fire their gun in less than two minutes. Sterling didn’t have high hopes they’d be able to match that. Still, as the boy carrying the cartridge scampered up to deliver it into Hamir’s hands, Sterling felt a timer start off in his head. _One.. Two…_

~ 

Willy picked himself off the deck, from where he’d flung himself to avoid being brained by the drake’s tail. “Cut it loose! Haul in the mainsheet!” he cried, pulling himself upright by the wheel.

The topmen surged over the rigging, hacking with axes to loose the drake before it pulled them all under. A cable snapped, and went flying through the air with a high pitched whistle, slicing the foresail cleanly in two. Luckily it wasn’t any person, Willy thought to himself. The tension broken, the drake tore free of the ship, and the structure went slamming back to an upright position. A shudder traveled through the whole ship. She swayed, but she came around, shaken but steady. “Steady there, girl.” He patted her wheel, and quickly assessed the damage.

The drake had caused considerable wreckage to the sails, but they were not lost yet. Most of the foremast’s yards were ripped off, dangling like twisted limbs; its sails hung in tatters. The mainsail had been taken in before the fight and was still usable. If he could get them into a fine wind, they may just be able to shake the drake, long enough to cut around and give the lieutenant the shot he needed. ‘Twould be a near thing, but then Willy was known for near things. How many men could find a frying pan in a jungle after all?

“Cut loose the foresail!” Willy yelled to the crew, his deep voice carrying over the protesting groan of the ship. “Loose the mainsail and haul away!”

The crew responded with a cry. “Haul away!” They rushed to obey, and Willy relayed to the helmsmaster what he wanted.

“Take us further out to sea. I want no chance of that thing climbing back to shore.”

She nodded. Willy watched as Muzu darted and spiraled through the air, putting on his best acrobatics for the drake. He’d seen the crow do these dances before, but his partner had always been Sorren, graceful and elegant as they danced. Ne’er was a feather ever clipped in their practice.

Now he danced with a much bigger, more crude enemy, doing all he could to keep in sight of those eyes while remaining out of those jaws.

Willy didn’t have the luxury to fully appreciate Muzu’s dance. He turned back to the crew, giving orders to set the mainsail, and be ready to take her in, on the off chance they would need to outmaneuver another attack.

“Tack her around,” Willy told the helmsmaster. “I want to drive yon beastie towards the rocks - force it into range.”

Leaving the helmsmater in charge, he ducked down the hatch, and popped his head into the galley.

“How’re things cookin’?”

Sorren looked up. Besides the bead of sweat rolling off his nose, the halfborn seemed calm. His sleeves were rolled up, arms white to the elbow with flour. The bowl slid back and forth on the table in time to the rocking ship, but Sorren never missed it as he tossed in a dollop of rum and a splash of vanilla.

“I doubt you’d want to cook this particular batch.” He held up a large, slightly greyish mound of dough, that oozed from his fingertips. He plopped it back in the bowl as it shot past him and bounced against the lip of the table.

Willy strode forward and before Sorren could stop him, scooped a sample onto his finger and stuck it in his mouth. “Hmm… has sort of a smoky… grainy… painty sort of taste.”

Sorren was deadpan. “Could be because it’s full of gunpowder and turpentine.”

Willy smacked his lips and looked down at the bowl. “Huh. It’s not bad.”

He reached for another sample but Sorren stayed his hand. “Just don’t go lighting up a pipe anytime soon.” Carefully he pulled the concoction out of the bowl and laid it in a cloth. Moving with care, he wrapped it up, like a present, then placed it inside a round metal casing that had been emptied for just such purpose.

“Now then. I believe we have a delivery to make.”

~

“Sponge!” Sterling called. The sailor drove the wet sponge down the gullet of their cannon, the big twelve pounder that Ouider affectionately called ‘Boomington McBangBang’. As a result, Ouider was never allowed to name anything ever again.

“Load the powder! Wadding! Shot!” It felt like clockwork in his head, every piece, every hand falling into place exactly when it should. Hamir deposited the the cartridge, and Ouider was right there, tamping it down. Next followed the sabot containing its deadly cargo, the ball itself. This, Ouider also rammed down as far as it would go.

Sterling ran his hand over the misleadingly cold iron of the muzzle, feeling a shiver pass through him in that tight space. _Fifty-five… fifty-six…_ Sterling dropped the priming wire down the vent. “Ready… Run her out!” The gun was lurched forward at his command. Almost tentatively, she stuck her nose out the side. Behind him, Sterling could hear other crews doing the same, the gun carriages rattling and squeaking. The great iron barrels as eager for blood as the sailors who worked and slept beside them. Ahead, they heard the heavy leather flap of the creature’s wings.

The gun crew held their breath as Sterling took his sights along the gun, gazing out the port. His crew held their collective breath. “Fire on my signal!” Sterling yelled to the deck. He caught snippets of the drake darting in and out of view and didn’t want any gun-happy lobcocks going off prematurely. This wasn’t a slow moving ship they were shooting at - he needed clear skies to aim.

“Elevate her a quarter degree,” Sterling instructed his small crew. The handspike men, Wheatleigh and Dorsett rushed to crank the great muzzle of the gun barrel upwards. Sterling held a hand out to stay them.

“Ready… Fire as she bears!” Sterling moved to the side and pulled the lanyard in one swift jerk. The gun bucked backward. The bark of gunfire exploded against their eardrums, as multiple guns went off in a symposium of smoke and fire. The sound was terrifying; the aftermath even moreso. Smoke filled his eyes and lungs, burning them. He couldn’t see, couldn’t know if any gun had misfired, if a stray ball might knock his head off then and there, or a bit of leftover power would ignite and trap them all in an inferno. A thick wad of panic rose in his throat.

A cheer went up behind him. Sterling blinked watery eyes, and looked around as the smoke began to settle. “We’ve hit ‘em!” one of the sailors cried. More leaned out the gunports to steal a peek. Sterling held back; his legs had locked in place. He feared if he moved from his spot he’d collapse.

“A round little hole right through its left wing! Ha ha!” The men and women rejoiced in their victory, but Sterling remained sober, a sick feeling sinking his stomach.

“It’s still aloft, then?” His voice cracked.

“Aye,” Ouider answered, leaning out the port to catch a glimpse. “It’s favoring it a bit - still flying well enough though.”

“Shit!” Sweat trickled down Sterling’s brow. The gun deck was like a hot box - every body in the place felt as though it was pressing down on him, waiting for his next move. Watching him. _Why didn’t I just become a damn lawyer?_ Where was that halfborn bird anyway? Every fiber in his body wanted to turn away and find him, demanding to know what he thought he was doing. _‘Stay, Roscoe,’_ Moritz voice was stern, but reassuring. ‘ _He has his job, and you have yours. Let him do it.’_

The lieutenant blinked the sweat from his eyes and kept his focus on the small patch of ship in front of him. It was the first time Moritz had spoken to him since he’d found that iron.

As if Fate had heard and sought to answer him, someone was there suddenly, in the smoke and the ash, pressing a cold iron ball into his hands. He looked down at it in mild shock. For a long moment he struggled to make sense of what he was holding. Moritz whuffled softly, and he snapped back to focus.

“Sponge!” _One…two…_

“Powder! Wadding!” The crew was a blur of activity, as they swabbed out the gun barrel, and prepared for another round. _Forty-four…forty-five…_

He passed the metal canister with its deadly cargo off to Vivian.

“Load the shot.”

Snug in it’s wadding, the ball didn’t look like much. Vivian dropped it down the gun’s muzzle, and it was gently slid into place.

The seconds ticked by in his head. _Seventy-five… seventy-six…_

Boomington was run out. The dark muzzle stuck out the side, pointing into the sky beyond.

“No pressure, or nothin’” There was that annoying voice of that firebrand glass smith, whom Sterling was beginning to suspect was not a glass smith at all. He turned to deliver a retort, and found him gone.

His hand didn’t shake as he added the priming this time. Moritz leaned against his leg to steady him. _Ninety-nine…_

_You’re responsible for this space and everything that happens in it…_ His mother’s voice drifted back to him through the years. She’d been trying to teach him to draw, rather than shoot a gun, but the words reared up in his mind regardless. His eyes tracked the path he imagined the ball would take; on the upward roll and the down. He breathed through his mouth.

The drake swept down after the crow. Sterling was treated to a view of it’s belly, and he nearly broke and called fire then and there. But he didn’t, and neither did any of his crew. The drake passed out of sight of his tiny window of space, then spiraled upward. Sterling watched, as it twisted, roaring, backflipping after the tiny black dot of the crow. Rocks loomed in the distance, and Sterling realized that it was being trapped, hemmed in by all sides. The cliffs prevented its ascent upwards. Its only escape was forward.

The halfborn’s eyes snapped open. “I’ve called Muzu.”

The crow dove toward the water, the drake close behind. Sterling could see it now, leveling off with the ship and bearing down on it. It had only a few seconds before it would have to draw off or collide with them. The ship rolled down a trough. Sterling didn’t even have time to curse. “Elevate!” The handspikes cranked the gun’s muzzle - “Ready!” The crew scrambled back. Sterling tensed, face alight.

_“Fire!”_

The ball exploded out of the gun muzzle. Old Boomington flew backwards three feet before the breech ropes caught her. On either side of Sterling a chorus of thunderous _cracks_ sounded. He darted to his tiny square and looked out to see the result. The wind blew off the smoke and he saw their ball arch through the air, like a comet, trailing flakes of red hot powder.

It flew straight and true.

Muzu shrieked and dodged at the last second, the flaming iron nicking a tail feather. He dove down as the drake rushed forward.

The ball burst apart as it collided with the flying body. Pancake batter spilled out across bone and wood, splattering the great wings. The heat of the impact ignited the volatile substance in a glorious conflagration. The flaming pancake batter stuck determinable wherever it had fallen. The smell of breakfast and burning flesh drifted back to them over the scent of gunpowder. The drake screamed, beating its wings even as they began to disintegrate, fanning the flames of its own demise still further. The fire spread rapidly once it got a foothold.

In no time at all the drake was a massive fireball whistling through the air, roaring in defiance even as it dropped towards them.

The lieutenant was caught up in the swarm as the sailors rushed to the top deck to watch the event. Their voices joined together in a cheer.

_“And we’ll ro-o-oll down, roll down to Alabaster-o!”_

Dizziness assailed him, and Sterling found himself clutching the ship’s railing for dear life. His shoulders shook with each pained breath. The heat from the drake was so strong it seared his skin. _It’s taking too long,_ he thought, watching the monster fall from the sky. _Its going to hit the ship!_

“Haul away! Let loose every scrap of sail we’ve got!” The crew rushed to obey Willy’s commands, and soon the ship underway, but it was limping badly.

The burning corpse screamed. And something else screamed too, from the midst of its ribcage - a teeth-jarring screech that made all the servals on the ship yowl. Sterling bent over the railing, as the sound tore through his head. He felt as though something in him were on the edge of bursting. He wanted to scream, to be sick, to curl up and die, but he was paralyzed by the dreadful noise. The sailors in the rigging froze up; the ship’s speed slowed to a drift.

The left wing dropped away, eaten to nothing by the fire. The drake, its form lost in swirling tongues of flame, plummeted towards the sea.

It hit the water. As it struck a great plume of steam shot up hundreds of feet into the sky, showering them with scalding water. Silence descended on them, so sharp and sudden it seemed unreal. Where the iron had touched it, the ocean boiled.

The ship all held their breath. What they were waiting for, no one could say. Some confirmation that the fight was over, the drake dead, and the day won.

The only motion were the broken lines swaying in the breeze. The water roiled over the drake’s landing place, bubbles of air flooded the surface, and broke with what sounded like a huge, satisfied belch.

And, like the conquering hero he was, there came Muzu. He flew over the ship, his voice still strong as he cawed to Sorren, despite one damaged wing. He tumbled through the air, and Sorren rushed to catch him. Muzu landed heavily in his hands, and Sorren brought him up to his lips and kissed his beak.

The tension broke over that. The crew cheered. Many hands at once threw hats and head scarves into the air, filling the sky with a rainbow of colors. Ouider whooped, and kissed the peg-legged rune dragon full on the mouth. Hamir hugged Vivian without thought, and Dorsett did a jig on the hatchway. Fiore danced on her paws, and Moritz let out a happy tails-wag. Willy grabbed Sorren in a tight embrace, careful of Muzu who let out a squeak.

“Three cheers for the crow!”

_“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”_

“Three cheers for the lieutenant!”

_“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”_

The glass smith’s whiskers twitched. “Ah-hem.”

“Three cheers for Captain Willy!”

Sorren couldn’t cheer, as he’d pulled Willy into a kiss before he lost his head in this cheering nonsense.

_“Huzzah! Huzzah Huzzah!”_

Willy broke the kiss to mutter. “Now that’s more like it.”

“And three cheers for Boomington McBang Bang!” Ouider shouted.

“Huzzah. Huzzah…huzz…” The third huzzah trailed off into mumbling as they all remembered why they didn’t let Ouider name things.

Sterling grasped Willy’s hand in his. “I think you’ve earned those pancakes,” he laughed.

Willy turned sharply serious. His grip tightened until Sterling felt the bones in his hand creaking. “Do not play games with me. Are there any left? Where are they? _Where have you hidden the pancakes?!”_

“Will, please. You’re going to break the man’s hand.” Sorren placed Muzu in a place of honor atop his head. There had, of course been no cheers for the halfborn, but it hardly bothered him. It was gratifying enough to see Muzu, battered and singed though he was, preening and primping under the attention of his new admirers. The sailors all pressed around, hoping to touch one of his feathers for luck.

Willy looked at Sterling’s watering eyes, and quickly released his hand. “Sorry, ‘bout that matey.” He laughed and thudded the man on the back, making Sterling wince in pain and grab at his shoulder.

“Pay it no mind,” Sterling got out between clenched teeth. But his look said, _I am sending you my doctor’s bill._ He nodded to Muzu. “Your birdy fare alright? Seems to be in good spirits.”

Sorren looked up as Muzu coughed, letting out a puff of smoke from his beak. “Yes, I think he’ll be alright after a bit of rest, and some clean air.” Muzu shook himself, fluffing out his feathers, and gave a caw. He seemed a bit miffed with the lieutenant for having shot at him.

“That was some fancy shooting there, Lieutenant,” Willy said with a wink. Sterling flushed with pleasure. “I think this calls for a celebration, don’t ye agree?” Willy turned to the crew and spread his hands out wide. “Who’s up for a late breakfast?”

 


	19. In Which There Are Losses and Gains

“Aren’t you coming in the boat?” Sterling asked.

“Not yet, just want to say goodbye to the ol’ girl.” He sniffed as Sorren patted his back. Their victory was not wholly without causalities. The frying pan was lost to the sea. Mayhaps it could rest in peace now that its enemy was slain. They lay together now on the ocean floor, hero and villain. Yin and yang. It was oddly poetic. Sorren assured him that it was what the frying pan would’ve wanted, and Willy had to agree. Besides, they had a victory to celebrate. And Sorren had promised him pancakes.

“Go on without us; we’ll be along shortly. Just making sure the precious cargo is secured.”

The lieutenant shook his head over Willy, and turning stepped into the long boat, giving orders for her to be lowered into the sea.

The crew were in too good a mood to set sail, and the officers in too black a one. When Willy learned the ship contained all the ingredients his quest had contained: eggs, milk, and oil, and - luck of all luck - several frying pans (though none as stalwart and true as the one he lost), he had declared a national holiday and demanded they all throw a pancake barbecue on the beach. Sorren had tried to point out that one doesn’t barbecue pancakes, but Willy had shushed him.

“Pancakes can be whatever they want to be Sorren,” he whispered, his finger jabbing painfully into Sorren’s upper lip. “There are no limits. Hush your beautiful face.”

When Willy mentioned they collect his golden treasure on the far side of the island, most of the crew had all happily piled into the long boat alongside the loudly complaining Captain and officers and rowed off to start searching the island for it. The rest of them had hauled up crates and barrels, digging out bottles of cooking oil, fetching frying pans aplenty, and bringing up fresh eggs from the coop on deck, and fresh milk from the ship’s manger eager to celebrate the treasure hunters’ return.

Willy was double checking the longboat that contained these precious supplies, as Sterling’s own boat pulled away and made towards shore.

For once, Sterling felt as though he’d really earned a rest, and he leaned back to soak up the last rays of the evening sun. Moritz sighed beside him. Having had enough adventure for that day, she told him she was looking forward to a nap, and he concurred.

Sterling stood in the boat as it was dragged ashore. His smile was wiped off almost as soon as he did so. _Oh, fantastic._ Because his plans of a second vacation were burning up with every step his brother was taking towards him. He hadn’t even set foot on land yet. Feeling an angry heat creep across his features, Sterling tried to ignore the Captain’s presence by turning his head and feigning interest in the ship he’d just left. Odd. He didn’t remember the sails being down when they’d left - that was probably what Cicero was here to yell at him about.

“You mutinous scum-licker.” Cicero had the sense at least not to blow his top at Sterling then and there in front of the crew, dropping that scratchy voice to a whisper that promised a future of pain and torment. “I hope you enjoyed your little play at glory, because it’s certainly the last you’ll ever taste. Your career is finished, understand me?”

“You’re dripping on me,” Sterling scoffed, feeling a knot of anxious excitement when Cicero’s face turned from red to an alarming purple. The lieutenant found himself instinctively taking a step back, and nearly toppled into the sea when his foot hit one of the benches in the bottom of the boat.

“What’s that?” Cicero demanded, as Sterling caught himself awkwardly. It took him a minute to realize his brother wasn’t talking about him any more. “What are they doing? Who did you leave on that ship as guard?”

“Guard..?” Sterling looked towards the horizon. More sails had been let go, and the wind was starting to billow them, pushing the ship out to sea. He hadn’t expected the glass smith could pilot a ship, or had the gall to steal one, but looking back on things now…

_“You did leave guards behind on the ship, didn’t you?”_

“Well… Waffles.”

Cicero whirled on him. “Sterling… I swear, if you’ve gotten us stranded here -” At that moment, Moritz, who’d been sitting patiently in the bottom of the boat, stood up behind Cicero. The Captain took a step backwards and the oncoming tirade turned into a yell as the Captain fell backwards over the wolf’s back. Cicero landed into the water with a splash. The crew tried their best not to laugh as the other officers ran to their commander’s aid.

Moritz looked up at Sterling, her tails waving slightly, almost cautiously. _‘Looks like your wish for a vacation came true after all.’_ He smiled down at her, a real, genuine smile that lit her tails into a genuine wag. He looked back up at the disappearing ship, and just gave a shrug.

~

When everything was assembled to Willy’s liking he stood back to admire his work. Spread before him were the fruits of his grand quest. The ship’s deck was empty, all hands having left for shore, save for Sorren, Fiore, and Muzu of course, who was snoozing perched on the railing. He stood and relished his victory.

“What are your orders, Cap’n Willy?”

Willy grinned at Sorren. “Well,” he swept off his hat, and spun his first mate into a dip, planting a kiss on Sorren’s bewildered face. “I want you to whip up the finest pancake dinner Eldemore has ever seen.” He leapt away to the wheel, bellowing orders, and startling Muzu awake. “But first - Hoist the anchor! Release the sails! Reef the main sheet! We’ve got a tide to catch!”

Sorren’s grin held a wicked, almost piratical edge. “Aye, aye, Captain.” And the deck echoed with the laughing caw of crows.

“Willy, did you remember to bring any more of that pancake mix with you?”

“Ahh… oh, waffles…”

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Here it is. This story has been in the works for well over a year, nearly two at this point, and I'm so glad to finally get it posted. I started the first draft in July of 2017 - some of you probably remember me talking about it, at first as an idea for a potential roleplay. But as always life got in the way and I had to set it aside. It lay forgotten, until one day I took it out, finished it up, and set about the long and arduous task of rewriting and editing (and reediting) the whole mess of it. I have no idea how I kept the inspiration to keep going; at this point I've read and reread so many of the jokes I can't even tell if they're funny, but here it is at last. There is so much broken in this (not least of all the canon), but I hope you enjoy it despite all it's many flaws. I wanted to write something fun to share with this awesome community. (Totally did not intent to post this at Christmas, but I did, so that's that) Let's hope it was all worth it, and not just me wasting a year writing this silly story. There are mistakes. There are problems. If you think the story's worth fixing, feel free to point them out.


End file.
